


Elegy

by Kount_Xero



Series: The Sorceress War [10]
Category: Final Fantasy VIII
Genre: Covert Ops, Gen, Intrigue, Political Intrigue, Sorceress lore, Waging War, War, politicking, stealth - Freeform, succession of witches, warfare
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-04
Updated: 2019-08-08
Packaged: 2020-07-31 08:42:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 18
Words: 53,605
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20112298
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kount_Xero/pseuds/Kount_Xero
Summary: Ocean Garden has reigned supreme, even seven years after the mutiny that shook it to its core; and the Fated Children are searching for the next sorceress. Elise Galloway is Esthar's new president, and the inheritor of Laguna's secrets. She quickly finds herself at odds with the shadow the Garden casts. The inevitable power struggle will come to a head when a potential new sorceress finally emerges.





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> This story, the tenth installment of the series, takes place roughly 25 years after the events of the original game and 7 years after the events of "The Fated Children." If you are still here and still reading, I commend your patience and tenacity. You are to be congratulated. And thank you for sticking with me!

**EVERY MORNING SINCE EDEA.**

**(Brea's war.)**

The snub-nosed revolver was a gift; it had been given to her on her birthday seven years ago, just after Edea. It was a work of fine art, and carried the touch of somewhat reluctant Shumi craftsmanship. It was coated in silver, with intricate lines etched into every available inch in flowing red, pretty curves. The stock was wooden, sanded and shaped into perfection; and it bore her name, written in the Shumi language.

The gun was a .47 caliber, just like her twin pistols. She had removed its safety catch after getting back to her suite on that day, as she did that with all of her weapons. It was her sharpshooter training – a finger extended along the barrel was all the safety a gun would ever need.

Now, the revolver had only one round in the chamber and the hammer was cocked. A little ways from it was the plastic, golden casing of her lipstick, which was the only make-up she ever wore. Number 54, Centra Sun, a vibrant, blue based pale red. One of the very few things that were her own, had been her own since the Trabian Atrocity.

Her palms were pressed firmly against the smooth, glass surface of the white make-up table, on either sides of the gun. Her fingers, nails well-groomed, were spread out.

Brea looked up and into the make-up mirror. Brown eyes looked back. Red hair, still messy from the night, hanging around her pale face. Her face was still a bit puffy, as were her lips. The silver chain of Jake’s cross was visible around her neck, and the cross itself, hanging between her breasts, was like a tattoo to her - always, forever there.

Her eyes darted to the envelope stuck to the corner of the mirror. She knew that it had a single, folded page in it, containing four words that were meant to explain everything if that morning went differently than the other hundreds of mornings.

She looked down at the revolver again. The solitary bullet inside it, waiting to be let loose, wasn’t just a piece of metal meant to kill, but a question.

The embodiment of what she lived by...

...but would it be what she died by?

A moment’s hesitation.

Then it passed.

Brea withdrew her hands and caught her own eyes in the reflection. On the precipice, leaning, but...

“Not today.”

Brea got up to get ready.


	2. A Death in Cupola

**7 YEARS AFTER THE FALL OF SORCERESS EDEA**

**(A good man dies.)**

* * *

Echoes of gunfire in the distance, mixed in with an indistinct jumble of screams. Commands and prayers and expressions of pain and pleas for mercy, to the rhythm of para-magic discharged, the names of junctioned spells adding to the wall of sound.

The taste of dirt between his teeth. He could still taste it when his tongue trailed his canines, grinding against particles that were no longer there. Phantom soil. Dry, infertile, dead.

There were other phantom sensations. Ellone’s slender fingers were holding his left hand in a death grip, but beneath her touch was a layer of rust covering the gun metal. His index finger could feel the curve of the trigger, as if it had been seared into his flesh.

Years ago and far away, huddled together with other soldiers in a trench, Laguna Loire was wondering every passing moment if this would be how he died – surrounded by carnage and death, drowning in these sounds.

Now, lying in the bed placed into the living room of his house in Cupola, Laguna Loire was dying.

* * *

Light was issuing in through the open curtains, highlighting dust motes floating lazily in the air. There was warmth near his right hand. Tea. China cups, tan, floral Winhill pattern. Raine’s own, presently filled with delicious Winhill tea. He had had all kinds of tea in his life, sometimes in the unlikeliest of places, but the naturally sweet taste of Winhill tea leaves was something else entirely.

He didn’t have to look at Ellone to know what he would see. A grown woman who still had the eyes of a child, jaded yet innocent. Not bitter, never bitter. He couldn’t bear to see the tears silently streaming down her cheeks. Of course, she was witch-kin. She knew.

The moment she had come in through the door, two days ago and flung her arms around his neck to hold him tight, he had known, too.

So he was speaking, perchance to dull the pain.

“Did I ever tell you about the time when Raine found me humming that song? I’ll never forget. I was doing something in the garden. Wild weeds, I think. Ellone was there, too, chasing a Chicobo that had somehow managed to escape the reserve.”

A little ways away, Selphie was trying to contain her sobs. It broke his heart to see her like this – he had seen her crawling down gin bottles, half naked and high on perfect despair, but _this _was hard to bear, for him. At least then, he had had no illusions about being able to reach her. Here, he held onto that – one last indulgence for a dying man.

_Salt of the earth, she called me once. Well, aren’t I just? From the ground, to the ground._

“So there I was, trying to pull this really stubborn batch from beneath a sunflower stem. It suddenly came to me, that tune Julia always played to open up her act in the Deling Hotel. I must’ve listened to that one a million times... heh. I think Kiros and Ward decided to abstain from music altogether because of that.”

Quistis and Seifer were on his couch, the couch on which the gardener’s boy (what was his name again?) had slept after telling him something that would change the world in a way that nobody but those present would notice. Laguna admitted that he didn’t know them as much as he would have liked to – red tape had always been in the way. But, then again, he knew everything there was to know; they were his family, if only by extension. Seifer was too stubborn, it seemed, to express any grief –or he just didn’t care much-, but Quistis was a bastion of strength.

Unfortunately, Laguna had a good many years on her, so he had noticed her hand holding the cane was gripping it white-knuckle tight. She didn’t even need it anymore, but carried it, it seemed to him, to remind herself what she had overcome.

_What have I?_

“Ellone managed to catch the poor Chicobo when I finally pulled the weeds free. Deep roots. She showed what she had caught to me, and the Chicobo started pecking at the weeds, trying to see if they were edible. They weren’t, and a good thing that they weren’t – seeds of wild weeds are poison to them.”

Brea was just Brea, to him. If he didn’t know better, he would say she and her son were cut from the same cloth. So young, relatively speaking, to shoulder the burdens of what she was, but so determined. Silently strong. 

“While we were wrestling with it, the poor thing managed to break free of Ellone’s iron grip and Ellone turned to chase it. That’s when we realized that Raine was standing there. She looked like she had seen a ghost. With the weed still in my hand, I walked over and asked her what was wrong. She sort of... blinked a few times and said that I had started humming the song the moment she had come near enough to tell us that dinner would be ready soon. I mean, magic is real, that much I know, but this? Unbelievable. I think it’s good that magic exists, but it’s just great that miracles exist, as well.” 

Tough room. Nobody reacted. That was when Laguna mustered up the courage to look at Squall.

_My son. Our son, Raine. Look at him – he’s a man now._

His nearly shaven head, the fuzz of the buzzcut exposing his shapely scalp, the eyes that were his mother’s and the scar between them, of a battle fought and lost long ago... yes, his son was a man. And he would never admit it, but Laguna could see what was stirring behind his eyes, what was aching inside of him.

“Squall.” 

Squall clenched his teeth. Selphie and Brea caught it, but only because they knew to look for the slight flexing of his jawline.

Squall forced himself to look into his father’s eyes. Brilliant in their sunken sockets, crystal clear as if to defy the decaying body around them, they were full of unrestrained, unfiltered emotion – and when they looked at him, they were full of love. Squall felt as if he had been stabbed in the heart with a serrated blade that someone was now slowly, cruelly, twisting.

But there was forgiveness in the gaze, forgiveness for things he didn’t even know, things he couldn’t know... shouldn’t know. Absolution for the memories of ill deeds he had done.

“Do you ever wonder what it’d be like if Caraway hadn’t been so hung up on Julia?” Laguna asked, “If he hadn’t sent me away?”

“No.” Squall said.

“Always the realist. Well, somebody has to be. Otherwise, we’re all dreamers in this family.”

“Father, I...”

“No.” he said, “You are my son. I never expected you to be anything other than yourself. Whoever you are, whatever you have done... that is how I love you.” Laguna sighed, breathing deep, feeling every ounce of air filling his lungs as if experiencing it for the first time, “I just wish Raine could’ve met you. She’d be so proud... so proud of what you’ve become. And I wish I could’ve raised you. Been there as you grew up. But regret is for the young, Squall. I left behind a wife and years later, a grown man came to find me. And, between you and me... you have her eyes. So here’s hoping - maybe you’ll get to see some of the world as she did.”

“What did she see?” Squall asked.

“That the world is a dangerous, violent, sad place where the good suffer... where wars happen, and tear families apart and kill children... and a wonderful, wonderful place.”

Laguna turned towards Ellone and smiled.

“Elle.” Ellone couldn’t help but hold back a sob, “Don’t cry too much, yeah? You’ve seen a lot of things I wish you hadn’t. I mean, look at this, you brought an army with you. Didn’t your uncle always tell you not to go near soldiers?”

Ellone chuckled mournfully and managed a nod.

“So what’s this then?” Laguna asked.

Ellone’s voice was hoarse and choking, but she managed to speak.

“My family.” she said.

“Atta girl.”

Laguna patted her on the head.

“Just one thing: I want to be buried in Winhill. Next to Raine. Maybe I couldn’t find her whilst we lived, but I want to tell her all about this crazy life I’ve had. Maybe, after I close my eyes, I’ll go back to the pub and find her there, telling me that I forgot the groceries.”

A moment’s silence fell like a bomb. All those present knew, and none agreed.

“I’m tired.” Laguna said, causing Ellone’s grip to tighten, “But there’s one thing you need to know.”

“Father...”

“No, Squall, everyone this is important. Esthar. Watch out for Esthar. The people running it, they’re...” –he took a deep breath, let’s have some flair to it, why not, far as last words go, this'll be epic- “...colossal fucking _assholes.”_

Quistis couldn’t help but burst out laughing. Selphie joined her after a beat. Brea concealed hers behind a hand. Ellone began to chuckle also, the pain pouring out of her. Seifer’s laughter roared as Squall, the last one to finally let it sink in, and his laugh mingled with Laguna’s.

They laughed, and for one moment, they were as one.

* * *

Laguna closed his eyes and smiled as the laughter echoed in his ear, growing more and more distant each passing second. He remembered all the times in the trenches that he had wondered if the next stretch would be the one that would end his life, if the next assignment would be his last. 

Years ago and in some battlefield, huddled behind a trench next to Kiros and Ward, Laguna wrestled with the gnawing fear that he would die in the mud, bleeding from a fatal wound, with nothing but the sound of gunfire and death to keep him company. Dead before he was thirty. Dead before ever knowing what the world was like, ever seeing anywhere without the bodies and the debris.

Dead before ever working up the nerve to tell Julia how much he adored her. 

Now, in the living room of his home in Cupola, Laguna Loire closed his eyes to the sound of children laughing, and released his breath. It was alright.

_The children will be alright, in the end._

* * *

Miles away and miles down, buried in the heart of the Salt Fields, a console disrupted the years-long solemn humming of the compound it had set the foundations of with an enthusiastic whirring sound.

The console was old, a relic, still holding on by the virtue of its unnaturally long half-life; indeed, it would outlive the value of what it held inside. The massive Archive filled to the brim with networked servers, hard drives holding terabytes upon terabytes of data, constantly processing anything and everything from online diaries to multi-layered state secrets.

The console now beginning to emit light as it struggled to shake off the dust of a lifetime, in contrast, was isolated. The only connection it had to the outside world was via a landline, tied to a dramatic cylinder in the middle of the President’s Office. The cylinder would twist, hiss as it did, and emerge from the carpeting to reveal a small screen embedded onto it. Hopefully, it would do so only to the President.

As the signal to send the message shot through the miles-long wiring, the console itself warmed up. The screen read:

**ARCHIVE 00**

**PRESIDENT’S EYES ONLY**


	3. Dancing in the Light

**(2 weeks after the passing of Laguna Loire)**

**(A masked ball without masks. Coup d’etat in Trabia.)**

* * *

The clinking of champagne glasses was a familiar sound by now, almost mundane enough to not register. As Selphie lifted the glass to her lips, she reminded herself that this was her fifth, that she should slow down. The drink tasted sweet, silky smooth, and she remembered wondering, as a cadet, how much organizing these events would cost. She had spent years doing nothing but that, and knowing the average expenses that went into stocking up on all the “civil” drinks compelled her to make sure it didn’t go to waste.

She looked down. She was wearing a strapless, black sequin gown. She had, as always opted for simple black flats as opposed to heels. She glanced up and saw Quistis, in her spaghetti-stap red silk, her heels clacking along with her cane with every step. She was flawless. Selphie had never envied her friend, had never allowed herself to be that green, but the champagne was making her wish she was like her in a way... especially since Seifer hadn’t left her side.

Selphie took another sip. She looked around. She remembered liking this game whenever things got too pressing, or whenever she had too much to drink: the wallflower game. She would take her drink, find a corner and disappear, able to take everything that was going on around her in.

In this iteration of the game, she was in Esthar. In the ball room under the Esthar Presidential Palace, there was a masked ball without masks.

Members of the Parliament in their tuxedos, gowns and permanently pleasant smiles; high-ranking military officials and the Chiefs of Staff; ambassadors from Galbadia, come to pay their respects; a few journalists lucky enough, or sycophantic enough to hound anyone they could.

The center of attention, who was also talking her husband’s ear off, was Elise Galloway, Esthar’s new president for almost two days now, and the successor to Laguna Loire’s successor. Some would argue that she was the first freely elected president the country had seen since Adel - twice removed from Laguna Loire. She was wearing an Esthar blue number of mixed fibers that glowed slightly when she moved. Shoulder-length chestnut hair, pale skin and, Selphie had to admit, eyes that could rival Squall’s. Cold blue, dead blue.

The noise made out of idle chatter, the clinking of glasses, laughter, and indistinct, unintelligible words that permeated through the room was all in celebration of her electoral victory.

It just reminded Selphie of her Sir Laguna... two weeks gone and there they were, laughing and jabbering like it meant nothing.

She stared at her glass, at the golden liquid swirling gently.

_Because maybe it doesn’t. We all die one day._

She glanced at Seifer, standing arm-in-arm with Quistis in his black tuxedo, whispering something in her ear that made her stifle a giggle behind her hand.

Then she turned back to Squall. He was the only one of them who was wearing his Garden Master’s uniform. Pure white, smooth but durable fabric. Golden epaulets with tassels on both shoulders. Belt going around his jacket, its buckle, the SeeD cross. His medals gleaming under the lights, as were some of the newer scars, but Selphie knew that only she knew where they were. She took a small amount of pleasure in that – her husband might have chosen to leave her to herself very early on in order to get to Elise Galloway before she was crowded, but in the end, she knew where the remnants of cuts and bruises and broken bones and exit wounds were.

_And I know the ones they will never see, too._

* * *

Headmster Sun Aeryn was a well-sculpted man, as Oura always said when she was sure he was within earshot. An angular face, very short buzzcut hair, a chiseled physique even with the desk job that came with his title, and that had bled into his office as well. Everything was immaculate. The walls of the octagonal room were all bookshelves neatly following one another, save for the door, and the wall behind his desk, which was a simple wall holding a large Trabian cross.

Sitting behind his desk, which was made of the scrap metal salvaged from the Atrocity, the Headmaster of Trabia Garden was going over handfuls of documents as Oura approached.

Upon noticing his aide, Sun set the papers down.

“Oura. What happened?”

Oura smiled.

_Intuitive, aren’t we?_

“Two cadets are late in returning. Rhea Grenn and Denize Buss.”

“Separated from the group?”

“Yes.”

“I don’t see how that merits my attention.”

“It doesn’t. I was just making conversation.”

Sun raised an eyebrow.

“Well?” he said, “Let’s hear it.”

“I’m here to depose you.” Oura said, “You are no longer the Headmaster of Trabia Garden.”

Sun started laughing. Oura patiently waited.

“That was good.” Sun said, “You couldn’t get me to name you my successor, so now you’ll depose me? And on whose authority?”

“Squall Leonhart.”

All color drained from Sun’s face instantly.

“Squall Leonhart,” Sun almost spat out the name, “, has no authority here.”

“Doesn’t he? Ocean Garden _is_ pretty much the reason why we exist, isn’t it? We pre-train their cadets, we send them out. Maybe before the Second War we were a peacekeeping force to supplement Esthar, and maybe we still are, but come on – we’re nothing but babysitters to would-be SeeDs at this point. Which makes you the head babysitter, a glorified custodian.”

“You’re out of line, Synn.”

“Am I?” Oura crossed her arms, “Or, maybe, just maybe, I’m not crying for my independence in the way that you are.”

“You -“

Oura’s hand pointed towards Sun. _“Stop.”_ She murmured and the Headmaster froze in place. The spell arrested his limbs and tongue, though little else, proven by his rapid blinking.

Oura went around Sun’s desk. She pulled the topmost drawer and pulled out a revolver. Post-Second War, Renzoku, modeled after Squall Leonhart’s first gunblade.

“See,” she said, “What those documents contain didn’t really go unnoticed.”

She checked the chamber. Full. There was no safety catch. She placed the gun on the desk. Oura placed both hands on Sun’s shoulders and gently pushed him until he was leaning back.

“Of course, they didn’t tell me to do this.” Oura said, “Garden Grand Master Leonhart was very clear that the deal you were working with Galbadia was to be stopped. He was just not very specific as to how apart from that it shouldn't be traced back to him.”

Oura grabbed the gun. She placed it in Sun’s hand. Being very careful with the trigger finger, she made sure he gripped it tightly. The autopsy would show it if his grip was too slack.

“An outpost, Sun? Really? A Galbadian outpost, no less, right on the Estharian border? I know, it was just a weapons cache, but squint, and it’s more. And you know the diplomat types, they squint pretty hard.”

Rhea dug into her pocket and took out a needle and a thread. Careful not to prick him, she pushed it through the trigger guard. She angled it diagonally to push against his finger but not the trigger itself.

“Here’s the history of now: you killed yourself. Maybe you were depressed, maybe you had issues nobody knew about, or maybe you just felt like it today. I’ll figure it out, ‘cause there’ll be a note. I will be the acting Headmaster for a while, and as I am, your deal will simply stop being viable to Trabia Garden.”

Oura braced herself, fingers holding the string tightly.

“This way, everyone wins. I get to have the position I was meant for, and you get to die like a man and not hanged like one of the Deling orphans for starting a war.”

Oura gripped the string. Three... two...

_“Dispel.”_

The gun went off before Sun could shape his next word.

* * *

For Elise, the entire experience was just a large-scale replica of the same thing she had gone through during her campaign. Fundraisers and public events and visits to schools and everything else that fed the strangely image-centric political scene of Esthar. Of course, her policies and conduct had to be excellent, but she had gone through the motions enough to feel right at home where she was.

Except for one thing. She had to admit that she hadn’t been ready for Squall Leonhart.

She knew him by reputation and by the virtue of his status, of course. The legendary Laguna Loire’s son, Grand Master of the Ocean Garden. Thrice-decorated Sorceress War veteran, the slayer of four different sorceresses. But none of these things, nor his lengthy resume, had prepared her for his presence.

He was... intimidating. To say the least.

It was in the way he carried himself; his well-sculpted physique, complimented by the cut of his uniform, commanded attention while his scar demanded respect. His eyes, piercing, ice cold, and the tone of his voice, even almost to the point of monotone, gave him the air of a calm monster. Not someone to be trifled with under any circumstances.

The sight of his comm-link, a speck of silver wrapped around his right ear, reminded Elise why Ocean Garden commanded such respect.

Someone was talking to him, right in her presence.

“...we have field tested it.”

“It tested well?” Squall asked.

“Exceeded expectations. That’s just the problem, we’ve developed the technology, but have no way of testing it here.”

Elise snapped to, and glanced at a skeleton of a man in a sky blue suit. Purple scarf wrapped around his scrawny neck, his angular face carrying a cheery demeanor – excited to have the ear of the Grand Master. Jaku Sincler, she remembered. R&D for the military.

“Go on.” Squall said.

“Well... you see, we are most interested in one possible testing ground, but...”

“Just tell me, professor.”

Jaku looked somewhat sheepishly at Squall, hesitant. He sighed. “We want to scan the grounds underneath the Tomb of the Unknown King.”

Elise tried to act surprised and masked it behind a sip from her glass. The only reason why she had had them send an invitation to him was to make sure a civilian made the request. It was the unwritten rules of engagement.

Squall looked unimpressed. “I can’t give you permission to test military technology on Galbadian soil. I can have Quistis negotiate terms, but it’d be a waste of time.”

“But the Tomb has-“ Jaku started.

“The Tomb has a blind spot underneath it that no scan devised so far can penetrate, yeah.” Squall said, cutting him off, “I know the theories. I’ve read your research as well. If you believe your own research to be accurate,” Elise saw Jaku’s face shift to a shade of bright red, “, then you also know why Galbadia will not let you anywhere near it.”

“But, perhaps _you_ can-“

“What I can and can’t do is up for debate, professor. What I _won’t_ do, however, is waste time and resources on a negotiation that won’t go anywhere.”

"Sir, please-"

"Let's cut to the chase." Squall said, "This room is filled with the highest of Galbadian officials. Even President Onesson is here. So if you are not bending one of their ears, but instead coming to me, I conclude that you want me strong-arm the scales in your favor. I am sorry, but I am not about to start a diplomatic crisis for your sake."

Jaku opened his mouth to say something, but Squall raised a hand to stop him as his free hand went to the bead of his comm-link. Elise didn’t know if she should feel insulted that not only he had brought it in, he was also taking calls.

“Excuse me, Madame President.” He said, “I have to take this.”

He turned on his heels and disappeared into the crowd, leaving Elise to curtly dismiss Jaku, whom had begun protesting quite explicitly. She last clocked Squall Leonhart exiting the room.

* * *

Oura closed the door of the Headmaster’s office behind her. She glanced down the hallway to see if anyone was there. The duty roster and the curfew wouldn’t allow it, of course, but one could never be too careful.

Once she was certain, she calmly made her way out of the administrative section and into the Officer’s Lounge. It was a circular room, filled mostly with tables and chairs. There were different types of vending machines standing in a row to her right. Meal replacement, hydrators, alcohol. Oura went to a nearby table and grabbed a chair. She fished out the earbuds to her mini disc player. Smooth jazz from the Deling slums. She hooked it in and pressed play. She picked track six, _The Sorceress Suite,_ putting herself above the 30-minute mark. She paused it twenty-three seconds into the song.

She then took out her com-link. It was a small, simple thing: no frequency adjuster, no screen. Just one button to make and take a call to a very specific receiver.

Oura pressed the button and waited. In her head, the song was already playing.

It rang twice before the sturdy voice of Squall Leonhart, Ocean Garden Grand Master, emerged.

_“Ms. Synn.”_

“It’s done.”

_“Congratulations on your promotion.”_

“Thank you, sir.”

“_Anything else?_”

“Yes, sir. For future reference, was General Willings made aware?”

“_No. This doesn’t concern her.”_

“The official byline it is, then. That’ll be all, sir. Good night.”

_“Good night, Ms. Synn.”_

Oura slid the com-link into her pocket and pressed play once again. She had a slight spring in her step as she left the Officer’s Lounge, but she was sure that it was just the music.

* * *

The music playing, brought to them by a small band she had been recommended by no other than Quistis Trepe, was an Estharian-classic trio, currently moving through an old waltz, the arrangement of which was attributed often to Sage Vascaroon. It was hauntingly beautiful, if light, mixing the organic tunes of the clarinet with the sharper, more metallic timbre of the synths.

Mir, Elise’s Joint Chief of Staff, was an excellent dancer, Elise noticed, his age be damned. Having held the position past retirement age, and the first person to do so, he was currently leading her effortlessly in the dance floor. He was a pleasant man with a charming smile and a reluctance to make small talk that Elise appreciated greatly.

Elise felt Squall’s presence keenly as he appeared, seemingly out nowhere. He interrupted Mir’s masterful waltz and requested her hand for a dance. Mir relented the floor. Squall took her gracefully, locking step with the waltz without missing a beat and leading almost as effortlessly as her previous partner had.

“Is everything alright?” Elise asked.

“Yes.”

“If you don’t mind my asking... what was that about?”

“You will hear about it soon enough, Madame President. I don’t want to spoil the evening.”

“Oh please. Call me Elise.”

“As you wish, Elise.”

“Mind if I cut in?”

Squall turned to see Selphie, wearing that slightly crooked smile that she always wore when she was buzzed.

“By all means,” Elise said with a courteous nod, “He’s all yours.”

“Don’t I know it.” Selphie commented as she settled into Squall’s arms. The song continued, segueing masterfully into the second act, but without altering the tempo. Squall noticed that Selphie’s cheeks were flushed a pale red, almost pink, like berries ripe for the picking. He couldn’t help but smile as she flung her arms around his neck.

“You’re all work tonight.” She said.

“Good thing you’re here to save me.” he said with a gentle smile.

“I do my best.”

Squall bent down to land a small kiss on her lips.

“So what’s up?” she asked, “And, gotta say, hate this thing you do where you hear about it first.”

“I brought my comm-link.”

Selphie rolled her eyes, “Not that. I already know that. I mean the liability thing. Y’know, the rest of us hear it later so we can deny everything in the meantime?”

“That’s necessary, don’t you think?”

“Don’t change the subject.” Selphie giggled a very high-pitched giggle, “Tell me.”

“Aeryn Sun committed suicide.”

“The Trabian Headmaster?”

“Oura Synn found him. Nine months until the next Headmaster gets chosen, so she gets the job for now.”

Selphie pursed her lips. “Awful lucky for her to find him.”

“Yeah.“

Selphie smiled. Squall saw that rare glimpse of light behind her eyes, brought on only by alcohol, loss of inhibition. It was a beautiful sight.

“In any case, Quistis is going to need some explanations.” Squall said, “I don’t think Seifer cares.”

“Later, darling.” She cooed, “Now shut up and dance. Make me feel glad Rinoa dragged you out onto that floor way back when, yeah?”

Squall smiled without a word and danced.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> At this point in time, nearly 25 years after the Second Sorceress War, we see how far Squall's (and the Garden's) influence over the world has expanded. At this point in time, they have garnered enough of a status to merit an archeology professor surreptitiously asking the Grand Master for a favor... or the Grand Master having the Garden Master of another Garden assassinated while he has champagne and dances with the new Estharian president. This is hardly an unexpected expansion, however, since the Garden has had Esthar's support for the duration of Laguna's presidency, and it isn't out of the realm of possibility to think that Laguna's appointed successor didn't have anything to say about that either.
> 
> We also see a bit about the political situation in the world. The problem I had with "The Fated Children" was that it was too contained to the crisis created by the redbands and too focused on Garden's inner politics, so to speak: it did, after all, follow an attempted coup d'etat. This time, I got the chance to expand on the more international politics side of things, putting an event like post-inaguration ball front-and-center as well as showcase just how far Squall's reach extends and what the power he talked about in "Until There's Nothing Left of Us" looks like.


	4. Hiding in the Dark

**(A necessary home invasion. Rhea combusts.)**

* * *

The wind was howling in her ear as she forced her legs to move foward. She could only see snow stretching out in every direction. In violation of the first rule of wilderness runs in Trabia: never get caught out in the open. She instinctively checked the homing compass strapped to her wrist. The dial was broken, a single puncture point leading to spidering cracks, and the device was dead.

A strand of stray hair entered her mouth as Rhea, sweating profusely under the many layers of her uniform, focused on moving. Her standard-issue knee-high boots were completely buried into the snow, and her wool greatcoat felt like dead weight. As she dragged Denize along, holding her wrist in her vice-grip, she knew that they were hopelessly lost. She checked the homing compass strapped to her wrist. Broken in the process of saving her, but that had been a one-off. There wouldn’t be a repeat performance.

“Rhea!” Denize’s hand gripped her arm. “Stop for a moment!” she panted, “Please, I...”

_Mages._

Rhea, careful not to cut Denize with her sword as she turned, looked into her friend’s brown eyes with her brilliant blues.

“We need to keep moving.” Rhea said, “We’re still in Forbidden territory.”

“I know... I just... need a minute...”

“We don’t _have _a minute!” Rhea said, “Just be glad my compass paid the price – let’s go!”

“Where are you even going?”

“I don’t know, okay?” Rhea snapped, “I don’t know where the Garden is, I just know we need to get-“

A piercing, beastly shriek rang, the sound thrown in all directions by the wind. Forbidden. A second one answered, then a third. Rhea’s eyes widened.

_Shit. A unit._

“C’mon, Denize!” Rhea instructed, “Move it!”

“We have a... better chance fighting.”

“Can you even cast?”

“If you just...”

Rhea pulled Denize by the arm began to move. One direction was as good as any other.

* * *

Brea felt her jeans squeezing her legs in as she crouched by the door. She went into the side pocket of her hoodie to extract a small, black box – there was a cable dangling from it, with an alligator clip at the tip. She examined the card scanner. It was standard Estharian tech, sealing the outer doors of the building Brea was standing in front of. She attached the clip to the card slot and turned the bypasser on.

She glanced down the street, the edge of her raised hood partially blocking her view. There was nothing but a neat row of white, fluorescent glo-lights hovering in perfect rows. She knew that this deep into the residential sector of Esthar City, and on that night, nobody would be outside. The who’s-who were all drinking and socializing with her superiors. The others were in bars or cafes, celebrating the new president.

Her com-link buzzed. Brea glanced at the screen of the bypasser. It was working out the twenty-three digit code embedded into each citizen’s ID, looking, this time, for someone who lived there.

Her comm-link buzzed,_ “This is Juna of Squad Zeta, checking in.”_

Brea huffed in frustration. Third time tonight.

“Everything’s fine.” She said, “I’m almost in.” -sixteen digits down- “I’m going dark.”

_“Sir, is that-“_

“Yes, it is advisable. I’ll contact you if anything happens. General Willings, out.”

Brea closed the channel, and turned her com-link off.

The bypasser bleeped. Brea heard the lock disengage with a loud clack. She unclipped the device and slipped it back into her pocket.

* * *

Rhea spotted a shadow dead ahead, an indistinct mass obscured by the snow. A hundred possibilities raced through her mind, but only two stood out: there were two woods near where they supposedly were, both equidistant to Trabia Garden, both with their own set of dangers, but a bunch of trees was a better cover against a Forbidden unit than nothing at all.

“I see the woods!” Rhea said, “I don’t know which one, but we have a chance if we get to it! Now run!”

Denize, panting and wheezing, followed her friend.

A steady rumbling began to reverberate in the air. The source of the sound was behind them, they knew, and it was slowly rising as it followed them.

They ran, followed closely by, from what Denize could see, four of them; their shapes were not clear, but she could see the vague outline of their torn wings, flapping in the wind of the pursuit as they followed their prey.

* * *

Brea slipped in through the small opening and gently closed the door. The lobby was a row of columns flanking a sky blue carpet that split into four at the very end, leading into the elevators. She looked around, ears perked, to see if anyone was late in going out. Nothing. The digital displays atop the elevator doors all showed that they were currently at the lobby.

She jogged her way across. The motion sensors activated when she got near and the doors hissed open. Brea stepped inside. The doors closed. She reached for the touchpad and typed in 65.

The elevator didn’t make a sound as it started to ascend.

Floor 65, apartment 3. Record showed that it was home to the Kales. Husband, wife, daughter, Evange, age 9. The reason for the comfortable presence of a pistol on her hip, the reason why there was a pure Odineum bullet in the chamber.

The elevator stopped and the doors slid open to reveal a hallway, only as wide as the elevator cabin itself. Even numbered apartments on the right, odd, on the left. Eight apartments per floor. Spacious, comfortable, but it also meant there were at least seven other people who would hear a gun going off.

_Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that._

Brea found the door. The fingerprint scanner attached to it was easy enough to bypass, even without a device. Brea reached into her jeans’ pocket and retrieved a piece of square, acetate paper. She peeled off the protective sheet and pressed the other one, with Mister Jann Kale’s thumb print, onto the scanner. A moment later, the scanner bleeped and the lock disengaged.

Brea pulled her pistol out, just as a precaution.

The door opened to the entrance hallway of the apartment. Brea closed the door gently, trying to make as little sound as possible. Her target was in the house, she knew, but there was no need to alert anyone else that might be. If not the Kales themselves, a babysitter might’ve been in. No need to waste ammunition tonight.

Brea took careful steps down the hall. Up ahead, she could see a sliding glass door leading into the living room. The kitchen was visible to its left, but before that, there corridor split into two directions, left and right.

_Two bedrooms, one playroom/office, two bathrooms. Master bed/bath to the left._

She approached the crux and peered left first. The door of the master bedroom was open. The lights were out. Brea didn’t see anyone in the bed. Out it is, then.

“Who the hell are you?” a voice asked.

* * *

Denize saw the move and opened her mouth to warn Rhea, but Rhea was so fixated on the trees that she had in her sight, so single-mindedly focused on measuring the distance left to safety that she didn’t even hear her friend.

_Look out, _Denize wanted to shout.

Rhea had no time to react as a Forbidden, having taken a leap, landed right in front of her. Rhea collided with the monster as it let out a shrill shriek, stretching its jaw bone in a display of strength and hunger. Rhea stumbled back, trying to use Denize as support; but she only managed pulling her arm down, dragging them both into the snow.

Denize looked around to see the others landing around them, encircling them. This close, she could see frozen flaps of meat stuck in their jaws, hanging from their exposed ribcages.

Rhea looked around. She counted eight. Two swords, three axes, three spears. Just the spears alone were too much. Her sword, still in her hand, felt like a piece of junk.

The most likely scenario rushed through their minds like a time lapse clip. The Forbidden would first kill them, most likely skewer them with the spears. Then they would drop their weapons. Then they’d close in and start eating their corpses, gnawing at their flesh until there was nothing left but broken bones and scraps of cloth.

Rhea saw it, and something snapped in her mind.

* * *

Brea whipped around, her pistol ready, and the owner of the voice came to a halt, arms already raised. He was a middle-aged man, chestnut hair, currently in sweatpants and an old, faded, red t-shirt.

Brea pointed at him and whispered the command:

_“Sleep.”_

Nothing happened.

“Please, just... take whatever you want, I won’t call anyone, I promi-“

_“Stop.”_

When the ‘s’ in the last word trailed off, Brea holstered her pistol. She cautiously approached him, curious. Immune to Sleep, it seemed, but how? The records had said that he was an engineer, not a para-magic user at all.

_Ah, but of course. Engineer. Used to sleepless nights._

“Is your wife here?” Brea asked him, “Blink twice for yes, once for no.” she thanked Hyne for Stop allowing that little function to continue.

Jann Kale blinked once.

“Is she out?”

One blink. Brea glanced at his hands. No wedding band on his left middle finger.

“Are you divorced?”

Two blinks.

“Does she live elsewhere?”

Two blinks.

“Thank you. Now, Mister Kale, I am not allowed to tell you much. But an explanation might ease your mind, so I will tell you this: your daughter, Evange, was seen using a draw point three blocks from this house. She’s nine years old, which means she is three years too young to be able to use para-magic. What she drew was a simple Thunder spell, and there is no way to assess if she was able to actually junction it. Do you know what a hollow junction is?”

Jann blinked once.

“A hollow junction is when you use a draw point, but can’t properly junction what it holds. It may be a case of that, which is why I am here.”

She thought about showing him her tool – Squall’s Odineum necklace that carried the Griever cross, the very tip of which was sharp enough to kill. She decided against it. Too much information for the civilian.

“I only need a few drops of her blood.” Brea said. A whimper escaped Jann. “Don’t worry, it’s just a prick. She'll be under a LVL4 Sleep spell. She won’t even feel it.”

Brea turned on her heels and went back into Evange’s room. 

* * *

Denize felt Rhea’s hand on the back of her head. Before she could even process it, her head was pushed into the snow. Denize felt Rhea climb on top of her, pushing her in deeper. She began to squirm, blind panic taking over, and trying to breathe through a faceful of snow, she couldn’t see what was happening.

The Forbidden brought their weapons to bear, and in that moment, Rhea detonated. She felt her body expand and burst, as if inflated too much from within, and the next thing she knew, the world was burning.

The blast spread out wide, engulfing the Forbidden in its white-hot rush. The monsters shrieked, bony arms flailing about as they were quickly reduced to ash. The snow around Rhea melted to the point where the soil became visible as the effects of the spell slowly faded.

Rhea rolled off Denize and grabbed her friend by the hair. She lifted her head up. Denize recoiled, throwing a blind punch that caught Rhea squarely in the jaw, and frantically began sputtering and wiping down her face with her hands. Once she could see again, all she saw was Rhea.

“What the... what just...”

Rhea tried to breathe enough to speak. The spell had really taken it out of her “I...” she said, pointing at herself, “Blue magic.”

“What did you do?” Denize asked.

“Combustion.” Rhea panted, “Picked it up in... Centra.”

“Fuck me, Rhea... you’re a mage and still you had to bring that damn sword.”

Rhea could only smile.

* * *

Brea half-closed the door, just enough to block his view. She went to the girl’s bed and went down on one knee. Quietly, she cast a Sleep spell. Then, she took her necklace off. She held the ornate tip between her index and middle fingers, like a weapon. She put her pistol to the girl’s temple as she brought the tip of the necklace to her arm. She pressed it down and watched it sink in, just a bit, a tiny hole. She withdrew it.

Her finger found the curve of the trigger.

Brea waited. The blood staining the tip of the necklace released a thin droplet onto the carpet. Twenty seconds. Forty. One minute. Two.

_Thank Hyne for that._

Brea holstered her pistol. She went to the door and opened it all the way for him to see.

“She’s fine, Mister Kale.” She said, “You will forgive me if I don’t dispel the Stop spell I used on you – it will wear off in about half an hour. I can show myself out.”

Before he could try to react, she brushed past him and went out the door. She opted to use the stairs and descended, gaining speed with every passing step. With a burning need to be out of the building, Brea thought about nothing and felt nothing. She simply moved.

The entrance looked like the gates of heaven. Brea pushed them open and stepped out. Maybe she had been right, she guessed - the cold night air felt like a blessing. Brea fished out her cigarette pack and lit one up, and began to walk, away from the building. She chose her direction based on which sides of the street the apartment could see.

She switched on her comm-link and found Squall’s private frequency. It took three pings for him to answer.

_“Brea. Report.”_

“Evange Kale is not a sorceress. She’s a one percenter.”

_“So she can only sense draw points and perform hollow junctions.”_

“Perfect mage material. Or would have been.”

_“Let’s hope she never gets there.”_

“Yes, sir.”

_“Any complications?”_

“Her father came home. He was immune to Sleep. I had to stop him.”

_“Dead?”_

“LVL4 Stop.”

_“What did you tell him?”_

“Nothing of consequence.”

_“Good. Where are you now?”_

“Moving towards the extraction point. Squad V is waiting for me.”

_“Want to make a late appearance at the ball?”_

“If my uniform will do, sir.”

_“It will. We’re waiting.”_

“Yes, sir. General Willings out.”

* * *

It took Rhea and Denize a further two hours to find their way back to the Garden. The snow eased up as the morning approached and the additional natural light helped them identify the pathfinder beacons that pointed the way. Exhausted, trying to keep each other on their feet, they wobbled their way through the security check, through the Garden and into their dorm room.

Their last thought was the incident report they had to file when they woke up.

* * *

Brea undressed in the back of the car. Squad Zeta had chosen a long, hoverlimousine; the only type of vehicle that wouldn’t attract suspicion on that night. Maybe just a debutante, maybe just an overly-busy bureaucrat who had just gotten to move towards the Presidential Palace.

Once she was back in her dress uniform and strapped on both of her pistols, she felt better about having held a gun to a little girl’s head with every intention of pulling the trigger.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here, we see another aspect of the power displayed in the previous chapter: in that, Squall is essentially conducting a covert operation without anyone's notice on what is, essentially, "foreign soil."
> 
> We also see here the philosophy that he defended to Natili Sulla right before her hanging turned upside down: Squall did boldly state that he didn't believe in the pre-emptive strike in "The Fated Children" but here, he is seen trying to deliver just that. This is in part due to Edea's death being preventible had he just found a way to deal with the problem before it actually became a problem, something he had to deal with twice before, but in different forms. First one, he kept a close watch on Rinoa but didn't intervene. Second one, he tried to work around the problem rather than attempting to dispatch Edea. Given that both of those failed, he is now trying to actively stop the next sorceress... which plays into a larger theme that has been running through this series that, in the end, pretty much defines it.


	5. Tomb of the Unknown King

**2 WEEKS AFTER ELISE GALLOWAY’S INAUGURATION RECEPTION**

**(An ancient feud. In service of Esthar.)**

* * *

The APC hovercraft began its descent, making itself known to its passengers via the increase in air pressure. Seifer turned on his comm-link and inserted an earplug into his free ear. This had been his idea, to counter the effects of their eardrums going all out of whack with every landing: to hold a conversation exclusively through the comm-links. He saw the others follow suit and smiled.

“Well, this is nice.” He said, hearing his own voice and weirded out by it, “The perfect Friday afternoon – go toe-to-toe with fucking Esthar.”

“It’s been a while since we’ve seen some real action.” Selphie said.

“I’m all for a little action, messenger girl,” Seifer said, “All I’m saying is, she hasn’t been in that office for a month and already, she’s fucking shit up.”

“Not necessarily.” Squall said.

“Yes, necessarily.” Quistis replied, “The Deep Sea Research Center is a no man’s land. If the incident report I got is accurate, they’re flying the Estharian flag there now.”

“Isn’t this sorta our fault?” Selphie asked, “We made the place untouchable.”

“To keep the status quo.” Squall said.

“Yeah, like status quo means shit right about now.” Seifer chuckled.

“Not that,” Selphie went on, “Didn’t we make the Deep Sea Research Center a show of muscle with that?”

“No, we didn’t.” Squall said.

“Actually, I did.” Quistis said, “Odine had the Guardian Force research limited to the data terminals on-site. So the Tripartite Treaty ensured nobody gets to touch it unless they clear it with us as a show of good faith.”

“I know that.” Selphie shook her head, “That’s what I’m saying - we kept it from them both. I guess with Sir Laguna...” a sudden rush of emptiness; there was a hole in her heart “...anyway, when Elise got a leg up, she said, fuck all that, I’m getting whatever’s there.”

Seifer laughed. “You have a way with words, Selphie.”

“Was that a compliment?” Selphie asked, batting her eyelashes at him.

“Ask your husband.” Seifer said with a wink, “Though I don’t think he’d know.”

“_More to the point,”_ Squall interjected as Quistis rolled her eyes, “Elise was sworn in two weeks ago. I’ll chalk it up to either a rookie mistake or ambition, because I don’t want to believe that she’d risk all-out war for a piece of research that’s at least three decades old.”

* * *

Elise Galloway found her leather chair to be a blessing beyond her wildest dreams. Adjusted to optimize back support, it was like being suspended in impossible comfort. She reached over the data-slates cluttering her desk and recovered her mug of sweet berry tea. On the other side of her office, a wall-mounted holo-screen was showing a series of runes, carved into stone walls. Old Galbadian, an ancient and nearly dead language of sharp tips and gracious curves; it was read top to bottom, and right to left, if memory served.

The only person other than herself in the room was the Chief of General Staff, Mir. He was in the final months of his job, having served in the Third Sorceress War. The area right next to the holo-screen was for guests; six armchairs and a low coffee table, and one of the chairs was currently occupied by Mir.

The feed shook and skipped a few frames, the voice that accompanied it glitching.

_“This is fascinating, Madam President,”_ Locke, the designated archeological consultant for her administration said, slowly going over the symbols, _“They’re so clean, too. Either the structure was that solid, or we are not the first ones in here.”_

“What does it say, Locke?” Elise asked.

_According to this, it all ties into Hyne’s Boon. I’ll be skipping these next few parts, if you don’t mind.”_

“Leave nothing out.” Elise said.

_“Yes, ma’am. Well, this part is covered by scripture: Hyne is waged war upon, and King Zebalga triumphs. Hyne, as a boon, offers the power of magic and gives King Zebalga his cast-off skin. The King is overjoyed to have overcome Hyne. The scribe here describes what came next as King Zebalga’s greatest shame and Vascaroon’s betrayal.”_

The feed slid over a new set of glyphs and began following them down.

_“King Zebalga moved Hyne’s skin into his camp, to its own tent, and posted guards to keep it safe while he summoned his shamans –magicians, as it is written here- to demand their counsel.”_

“On what, exactly?” Elise asked.

_“On what to do with it now that it, and the power of magic, was theirs.”_

“That didn’t end well.” Mir commented, “According to the scriptures, at any rate.”

“Go on.” Elise instructed.

_“A... I’m sorry, it’s difficult to get through in this passage, there are lots of curses... a-ha, there! A woman, whose name and description they blight here, managed to sneak into the tent to see Hyne’s skin. Of course, we now know that the skin was dead and powerless, but I don't think she knew that."_

"This is new." Elise said to Mir, who nodded.

_"So the skin didn't have power on its own, but it still lured her. It says here- she... uhh...”_

“What is it?” Elise asked, “What did she do?”

_“It says here that she... _partook _of Hyne’s skin.”_

Elise felt confusion settle in, dragging a long a hint of shock. “Come again?”

_“Simply put? She uhh... ate Hyne’s skin, Madame President. Not all of it, according to this. Just a mouthful, or, as they wrote here, ‘all that could fit into the palms of her hands’.”_

“She ate his skin?” Elise said, “She _ate_ Hyne’s skin?”

Mir’s hand went to his comm-link. He listened.

“What is it, Mir?” Elise asked.

“The Gemini Squad has made landfall at the Deep Sea Research Center.”

* * *

The hovercraft descended unimpeded, and as it did, those inside removed their earplugs and saw, true to form, a flagpole right at the entrance. The Estharian flag, with its blues, grays and oranges, was billowing lazily in the wind.

“First order of business, we take that down.” Squall said. He flipped his gunblade over and checked the chamber to see if it was loaded, “We’re not going in hot. We’ll demand they cease and desist and vacate first.”

“Oh, so we’re being nice about it?” Seifer sneered.

“Let’s try avoiding a potential incident with Esthar.” Quistis said, “Push comes to shove, they have it coming, but still.”

_“And if they don’t comply, sir?”_ Brea’s voice buzzed in the comm-link as she leveled the hovercraft.

“Oh, I know this one!” Selphie grinned, “We take ‘em down.”

“Exactly.” Squall said, “They don’t get a free pass for being Estharian.”

The hovercraft landed, shaking its inhabitants. Before the side hatch began to hiss as the hydraulics pushed it open, Brea had already opened the cockpit door and leapt outside, pistols in hand. She took in the scene: the uneven surfaces of jagged metal, overgrown with moss and salt water greenery. The entrance, a trapezoid with faded runes surrounding the frame, was dark. Directly at its mouth was a collapsible flagpole standing on its three legs. It went up and above the entrance, where it displayed the Estharian flag.

“All clear.” Brea said.

“Yeah, we can see that.” Seifer mumbled as him and the others went up to her.

“No guard detail.” Squall said, “I don’t like it.”

“Maybe they just don’t want to advertise what they’re doing.” Selphie said.

“No.” Quistis shook her head. She looked up. The flagpole was at least ten feet high. She took a few steps back to get some room to work with, “If they didn’t, they wouldn’t be flying the flag. Speaking of which...”

Quistis half-turned, right foot tracing a graceful arc on the ground as it went behind and her ankles aligned. Seifer couldn’t hold back a grin. If there was one good thing that had come out Matron’s death, it was that she was made whole again - when taking them out of comission, Edea had, in her power, healed her wounds. It was just a bitter reminder, at times, that she had wanted to take care of them one last time.

Quistis released the chain, but held the blade in her free hand. She released the blade and began to spin the chain, forming intricate patterns in the air but never going outside a very narrow circle around her. She built momentum until she, with one powerful, sharp move, slid the blade back. She flicked her wrist and the momentum carried it up, straight as an arrow, and the razor-sharp scythe plucked the Estharian flag right out of its pole. Quistis eased the landing of the scythe with a series of short moves, her powerful shoulders rotating with ease, and finally caught it. When she stood, the chain was wrapped in neat loops around her shoulder.

“Now we can go in.” Quistis said.

“Love it when you do that.” Seifer remarked.

“Okay.” Squall took a deep breath, “Standard formation. I’ll take point.”

* * *

"_I’m sorry, did you say the Gemini Squad?”_

“Yes, I did.” Mir said, “Pay no attention to them. DSR team: do not engage. They will most likely tell you to cease, desist and vacate. Consult me. Do not engage without my order.”

_“I’ll speed things up here.”_

“There is no need,” Elise said, “We’ll be out by the time they notice it. Go on, Locke.”

_“Ahem... as I was saying, she ate Hyne’s skin. Delirious, out of her mind, she stumbled out of the tent and was caught by guards, blood on her face. Evidence of "her unspeakable crime against nature." Unfortunately, Vascaroon arrived with his tribe just as the guards were marching her to King Zebalga, so that the king may dole out punishment. However, the arrival stopped the guards from getting a word in edgewise, especially since Vascaroon had, apparently, heard of Hyne’s boon and come to warn King Zebalga.”_

“Vascaroon told him that the skin was dead and powerless.” Elise said, “That part, we know.”

_“But when the guards told King Zebalga what the woman had done, Vascaroon became interested. The King demanded she be executed, burned at the stake ‘so that the fire may consume all of her corruption.’ Vascaroon, however, was interested in her. He urged the King to reconsider, to study her instead. The King gave her a stay of execution – one day. Vascaroon promptly used this opportunity to set her free, and abduct her from King Zebalga’s land to somewhere the King wouldn’t dare venture. By the way they say it, Zebalga’s scribes thought he had gone to...”_

“Esthar.” Elise said, “Vascaroon brought her to Esthar.”

* * *

The Gemini Squad was a well-oiled machine, perfectly in sync after years and years of combat. Once they started moving, they locked step and became a single being. Squall was on point, eyes open, flanked by Seifer and Selphie. Quistis and Brea came last, having the longest range in their weapons.

They emerged into the staging ground, the ground level of the Deep Sea Research Center. It was, like the rest of the structure's interiors, a large, circular area. A circle made of metal, moss and weeds. There were several columns around them, but it was difficult to tell which were supporting the ceiling and which were simply plants grown vertically. The metal plating under their feet had caught rust and gotten bent over the years, and vines had grown out of the cracks. The entire chamber carried the smell of trapped moisture, wet metal and salt water.

Ahead and to their left was a set of data consoles, their screens alight; currently manned by one Estharian soldier with his standard-issue gunaxe attached to his back, tapping his foot impatiently. According to the screen, he was waiting for the disk to be generated.

There were nine other soldiers, who stood to attention as the Gemini Squad moved in – neither side raised their weapons, but they weren’t put down either.

One of them, the Commander judging by the armor, reached for his helmet.

“Do that, and you’re dead.” Squall said.

The Commander relented.

“Do you know who I am?” Squall asked.

“Yes, sir.”

“Good. Do you have clearance to be here?”

“No.”

“Then you know you are trespassing into a no man’s land.” Squall clocked the soldier in the far end taking a disk out of the console and slipping it into his chest pocket.

“The Research Center is Esthar’s property.” the Commander said.

“Wrong. It _was_ Doctor Odine’s property, and it was seized by Esthar after he turned traitor... and was handed over to us. As the result of the ensuing arbitration, it is now no man's land. Do you need a history lesson here, Commander?”

“No.”

Brea saw the soldier by the console detach his gunaxe from its holster and turn around. He didn’t move after that.

“I’m ordering you to cease, desist and vacate.” Squall said, “Right now. And before you go, surrender the disk you’ve just extracted from the data console.”

“Permission to contact Field Marshal Mir, sir?” The Commander asked.

“Granted.”

The Commander clicked on the comm-link embedded into his helmet. Squall knew that it also sealed the helmet, making it impossible to eavesdrop. Brea watched the soldier by the data console. The Commander clicked the comm-link closed.

“I’m afraid we can’t surrender the disk, sir.”

“Last chance, Commander.”

The soldier by the data console moved. He shifted to a combat stance, that insectine crouch, and the moment he did, Brea took aim and shot him in the head. As the echo of the shot died, everyone present understood that it would be over quickly.

The rest of the Gemini Squad didn’t wait for an order. They moved forward as one and scattered, coming at the force that was almost double their numbers head-on. The opening salvoes cut the Estharian force down to size; the rest fell like dominoes, outmatched and outfought at every turn.

* * *

_“And after that it... trails off into King Zebalga’s wrath, his anger towards Vascaroon, how there will be war over this, just after he deals with Hyne, and so on and so forth.”_

“Interesting.” Mir said, “We all knew that the struggle between Galbadia and Esthar had its roots in Zebalga’s war with Hyne, but this... sheds a new light on things.”

“Anything else of use?” Elise asked.

_“There are some passages we are scanning, but otherwise, that is all we have, Madame President. The most important thing we have.”_

“Then finish your cataloguing, and then return as soon as possible.”

_“Yes, ma’am. Over and out.”_

The screen disappeared. Mir’s hand went to his ear again.

“Understood.” He said, “Pull out, if you can. Your country is grateful for your service.”

He clicked the comm-link closed.

“Well,” he said, “Gemini Squad is about to secure the grounds. It shouldn’t take too long. I expected nothing less.”

Elise leaned back and crossed her arms. She kept turning the story over and over again. “You know the Gospels, don’t you, Mir?”

“Yes, Madame President. I do.” He chuckled, “It’s mandatory reading in the barracks.”

“The Daughter of Vascaroon, Rhea.” Elise continued, “Plagued by insanity, but possessing of Hyne’s boon.”

Mir crossed his arms. “Yes,” he said, “Grounded in the Earth, destined to die but never to die...”

“_Never to die, lest her burdens be laid upon another and Great Hyne’s blessings carried on.”_ Elise quoted, “Great Hyne... this is it. This is what we’ve been looking for. This is the origin of the sorceress.”

Mir stood up and adjusted his uniform. “Will that be all for the first phase, ma’am?”

Elise almost didn’t hear him.

“Yes, yes.” She said, “Now. I need something from you.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“A list of names. Those investigated or just looked into by Ocean Garden under the Edea Sanction.”

“With all due respect, Madame President... wouldn’t that be a move too soon?”

“No.” Elise said, “And it’s not a move; the Edea Sanction is a Presidential-level secret, so I didn’t know about it until after the reception. I want to know more.”

“As you wish, Madame President.”

Mir left, saluting Elise’s secretary (what was her name again?) on his way out. He went into the elevator. His comm-link came alive then, broadcasting on what he knew to be one of the strike team frequencies. He clicked the bead in his ear.

“Yes?”

_“I want to know what you’re playing at.”_ Squall Leonhart’s voice came through, _“This is a no man’s land and you know it. You know it, because you were there when the treaty was signed. Your signature is on the document. So I’ll ask you this only once: what the hell are you playing at?”_

“This will come off as confrontational, my friend,” Mir said with a sigh, “, but I don’t actually answer to you.”

_“You violated the Tripartite Treaties. Ocean Garden is their guarantor, so no, you _do _answer to me.”_

“Be that as it may, according to the treaties, the terms can be renegotiated upon their renewal. Which is in two weeks’ time. I intend to bring up the issue.”

_“See that you do.” _Squall said, _“I’ll see you then.”_

The elevator stopped and the doors slid open.

“Have a good day, Grand Master.” Mir said.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Several things in this chapter that I want to mention:
> 
> -The origin of the sorceress was by and large unplanned, but I had been working with the lore that I had expanded upon in the previous installments. I figured that for a Sorceress to be a constant, a perpetual, she would have to have some fundamental connection to the world that she existed in. This, and reading up on some of the side text about the game's lore, especially regarding Hyne the Strong God, led me to flesh out the origin story of the Sorceress while, at the same time, putting a context to the implied, ongoing feud between Galbadia and Esthar.  
-The feud between Galbadia and Esthar, I posit as a matter of history, but there is (or was) also the fact that since Caraway's failed attempt in the game and Rinoa's presidency, that Esthar backed Ocean Garden would be a point of contention, especially since, from a political perspective, a supposedly neutral / apolitical body of super soldiers who do more than just fight Sorceresses have a political entity giving them support. This means that at the very least, Ocean Garden's claim to being "apolitical" is dubious at best, since they are closely associated with a political body.  
-The fact that Hyne's skin gives the Sorceress her power also justifies the other name for the Sorceress, which is "Hyne's Descendant." In a way, yes, she IS Hyne's Descendant, since she is part of the Strong God's essence. This seems like a departure from the established lore that the skin cast off by Hyne was hollow, but I just thought it wasn't necessarily - King Zebalga and his shamans just didn't know how to utilize it.  
-The fact that Edea healed Quistis' crippling injuries was something I always intended to imply in "The Fated Children" chapter, "The Extreme" but it took away tension a bit too much, so I had to exposit it here.  
-The Tripartite Treaty is named as such because three parties signed it: Galbadia, Esthar and Ocean Garden. That the Garden is their "guarantor" is mainly the reason why Squall Leonhart (and, by extension, the rest of the Fated Children) are the most powerful people on the planet - they are the de facto (if not de jure) police force, so to speak.


	6. A Rare Privilege

**THREE DAYS AFTER THE DEEP SEA RESEARCH CENTER INCIDENT**

**(A cadet named Rhea Grenn.)**

* * *

Selphie felt the day slowly dissipate, making way for that sweet weariness as she snuggled up to Squall, settling into a spot that practically had her shape etched in after years of lying there next to him. It was the same couch that had started it all, that she had had moved into their suite in the Master’s Level – which, itself, was a fancy new name slapped on a remodeled version of Garden Master NORG’s nest. Their suite was exactly the same as it had been when they were in the Dormitories, right down to the Moogle wall clock she had personally moved and put up.

Presently, Squall, still halfway in his combat uniform, had an arm draped over her. She sighed, content. After everything they had gone through, this, sharing the couch, was heaven itself, the rest of everything be damned.

But something was bothering her. A little splinter in her mind was pricking every thought. Knowing that he was listening, she chose to let it out:

“Is it just me, or were they... young?”

“Yes.” Squall said.

“How..? Look at us. We’re not that young.”

“Probably children of the Esthar City Blitz.” Squall said, “Or something like that.”

“I feel... bad, sometimes, that we made it this long.”

Squall raised an eyebrow, “Why?”

“I guess it’s not so much making it this far... it’s how many we left behind. It’s... Zell. And Matron.”

“My father. The Deling Orphans.” Squall hesitated, “When I close my eyes, I can still see Natili Sulla dancing at the tip of the noose. Like a rag doll, one of the dolls Matron made for Sis when we were kids... Hyne...”

“But I didn’t leave you behind.” Selphie said, “I didn’t lose you.”

“Selphie, I...”

The phone’s shrill ringing cut the mood apart. Selphie stood up, huffing in exasperaton, and reached for the “speaker” button. She settled right back, but this time, she knew she wouldn’t be able to get comfortable again.

“_Grand Master Leonhart, sorry for calling so late.”_

Squall’s brow furrowed. Oura Synn? “It’s okay. What’s on your mind, Acting Headmaster?”

_“Oh, please, call me Oura.”_

“Oura.” Squall said. Selphie stuck her tongue out at the phone.

_“I’ve been going through the late Headmaster Aeryn’s personal files and I’ve come across something that might interest you. The folder itself had your name on it. It has a wealth of information about a one particular cadet: Rhea Grenn.”_

“I haven’t heard of her.”

_“She’s in Class B, senior cadet. She was in the shortlist for SeeD recruits and would’ve been there in three months when you come. She’s a swordfighter. She’s shown some affinity for the sword in basic and stuck to it, but seems to have picked up para-magic much more quickly. She takes four perimeter patrols per week.”_

Selphie had to shift to allow Squall to sit up. He leaned forward, got closer to the phone. “Written marks?” he asked.

“_Near-perfect.”_

“Near?”

_“She doesn’t have the aptitude for the technical. Failed weapons maintenance twice.”_

“And why would she be of any interest to me?”

_“Well, sir... I’ll just say it: she is one of the two blue mages we have, and is the exceptionally gifted of the two. I took the liberty of consulting with Master Trepe beforehand, and she advised me to call you directly.”_

Squall felt like he had just been doused with cold water. “I’ll look into this. She sounds like a perfect candidate for early recruitment. Expect a call back shortly.” Squall said, “Is there anything else?”

_“No, sir. That is all. Again, my apologies for calling so late.”_

Oura hung up. Selphie counted the beats. Two, one, and Squall dialed Quistis’ internal line. It took three rings for her to pick up.

_“Yes?”_

“Rhea Grenn. Tell me.” Squall said.

_“Oura Synn called you?”_

“Just now. What do you think?”

_“I think we should invoke the Edea Sanction, as soon as possible.”_

“Why?”

_“She’s casting spells that shouldn’t exist. According to Oura Synn, she’s able to replicate the Death Claw’s combustion ability, twice, under different circumstances. What’s more, she’s apparently able to go into a limit break under no duress. That’s not impossible, but takes far more training than she’s had.”_

Squall cradled his head in between his hands. After all the misses and near-hits... was this it? Was this when everything would finally pay off?

Was this when Hyne would smile upon him, just this once?

“Thanks.” He said, and hung up.

Selphie glanced at him. She knew that expression. Nobody would notice the little detail that gave him away, the gleam in his eyes. Burning bright, the flame of excitement.

“You think this is it this time?” Selphie asked.

Squall smiled in return.

* * *

Rhea nervously shifted her weight from one foot to another as she waited for the Headmaster (_Acting _Headmaster, everyone was quick to remind her, listened to the receiver. Her eyes darted towards Rhea a couple of times, and each time, all she could think about was how she had almost gotten Denize killed. Denize herself was no different, it seemed: she had showered Rhea with affection and shows of camaraderie, thanking her by saying that she couldn’t thank her enough.

Rhea wasn’t arrogant. She didn’t think she was the only one whom had gotten away from a pack of Forbidden under heavy snow. People had managed to carve their way through families of Snow Lions, she knew.

What she didn’t get was why she was in the Headmaster’s office during the two hours of free time they got, if the Acting Headmaster was just going to make her stand there while she spoke on the phone.

“Understood, sir. How long? Yes, absolutely. Yes, sir.”

Oura put the receiver down and turned her full attention to Rhea, who flinched at that.

“Relax, cadet.” Oura said, “You’re not in trouble.”

Rhea nodded, but couldn’t relax.

“Why don’t you sit down?”

“I’d rather stand, sir.”

“As you wish. What I’m about to tell you is a secret, so it does not leave this room, understood?”

Rhea nodded furiously.

“Good. That was Ocean Garden Grand Master Leonhart on the phone.”

Rhea’s heart started to race. Her head was instantly filled with possibilities; some good, most catastrophic, but all of them insistent. The legendary Squall Leonhart? Thrice-decorated veteran, Sorceress-Slayer, Grand Master to the Garden that she herself was hoping to get to?

But why?

“You know that the Ocean Garden recruitment run is in three months’ time, yes?”

“Y-yes, sir.”

“Well. General Brea Willings is on her way here as we speak. They’ve suffered losses recently; they lost seven squads during the Great Salt Lake incident six months ago. Now, this isn’t official, but they do sometimes scout for specific recruits ahead of time – recruits with exceptional talents. They’re scouting you.”

Rhea was sure she would have a heart attack would never meet General Willings while she lived. Oh, she had seen the Fated Children during their recruitment runs, had even exchanged a few words with Quistis Trepe, but Brea Willings was somewhat infamous for never coming to Trabia. Rhea knew the stories, that she was a Trabian herself, but couldn’t bear coming back after the Atrocity. Nobody knew why.

What Rhea knew was that just the mere prospect of having a one-on-one with her was enough to make her terrified and ecstatic at the same time.

“But if the others know, they’ll think there’s favoritism involved." Oura said, "Their time will come, but everyone always wants to be the first. So you are to tell no-one.”

“No, sir. I-I mean, yes, sir, I won’t tell...”

“Good. Dismissed.”

Rhea saluted her, turned, and left. She tried to keep the spring from her steps on her way out, and failed spectacularly.

* * *

The wind started to howl in her ears as soon as Brea’s boots touched the smooth, heat-regulated helipad. The spotlights above drew long shadows on the ground as she lifted the collar of her greatcoat and tried to relax her body. Behind her, the engine of the hovercraft was cooling down to idle, its whirring mixing in with the wind’s whispers. Brea shivered. She knew that the more she instinctively contracted her muscles, the colder she’d feel, but at the moment, relaxing was a chore. The beams of light also illuminated the specs of snow, gently falling against the massive yet shapeless presence of Trabia Garden.

_I remember the snow,_ Brea thought, as she felt her cheeks go numb.

“General Willings!”

Brea looked ahead to see a woman striding across the runway to greet her. She had short-cropped blonde hair and brilliant blue eyes, and she was decked in her dress uniform – familiar jacket, but a free-flowing skirt and simple combat boots. She didn’t have a coat, and didn’t seem to be bothered by the cold at all. Her appearance alone brought back memories for Brea; she recalled her bewilderment at the way Trabian natives seemed to walk around with their jackets unzipped, not even slightly bothered by the cold that she could feel in her very bones. Perhaps, she mused, that was why she had chosen to be a sharpshooter – the gun warmed up with every successive shot.

Deep down, however she knew that it had just been too long since she had been there, and home was always a cold place.

The woman stood before her and saluted them. Brea nodded in acknowledgement.

“Welcome, General. I am Oura Synn, Acting Headmaster.”

“We’ve met.” Brea said, “Briefly.”

“I’m sorry, I don’t recall.”

“President Jacen Onesson’s inauguration in Deling. Five years ago.”

“I’m sorry, sir. I should’ve remembered.”

“It’s been a long time.” Brea remarked.

“Indeed it is, sir. And with Headmaster Aeryn’s unfortunate passing, things have been a bit difficult, if I may say so. So... shall we go in?”

“Please.” Brea said, barely keeping her enthusiasm from her bleeding into her voice.

* * *

Rhea didn’t know what to do with herself. She was sitting in the living area of her dorm room, seated comfortably in the armchair, watching Denize furiously working a pair of knitting needles, widening the wool scarf she had been working on for some time. Her fingers expertly worked the material, the needle stabbing into and out of the fabric.

Rhea didn’t know how not to tell her what she had been told a couple of hours ago.

She glanced at the clock. Ten minutes to lights out. Thankfully.

* * *

The inside of the cargo bay, though much warmer than the exposure of the Trabian wilderness, was still chilly enough for Brea to keep shivering, if only less. Passing through snowmobiles, crates and rushing techs in yellow jumpsuits, Oura led them into a corridor. The temperature shot up rapidly enough for Brea immediately unbuttoned her greatcoat.

“I must admit,” Oura said, “This is a rare privilege, General.”

“In what way?” Brea asked. Oura saluted a cadet who walked briskly past them.

“This is your first official visit to Trabia Garden, isn’t it?”

Brea responded with a nod. It was true that Squall had been handling the arbitration of Ocean Garden ever since the "retirement" of the Gemini Squad, but that hadn’t been the reason why she hadn’t gone there, despite being the General.

“I was informed by Garden Master Trepe that you would be staying for a week?”

“A week _at the most_.” Brea corrected the Headmaster, “Depending on how long it takes for me to conclude my assessment. I don’t expect it to take more than three or four days.”

“Yes, of course. Well, you are welcome here at any time.” Oura stepped a bit closer and matched her pace to Brea’s, “Between you and me, we’re very glad to have you here. You are one of us, after all.”

Brea thought of Selphie. The cemetery that bore her name, as if to say, _you did this to us._

Through what Brea knew to be well-insulated doors, they stepped outside once more to get to the Northern wing. At night, there were only the dim, dead lights of the outer ring, embedded into the ceiling. The rest of the landscape was pitch black. The Garden was designed like a coliseum, with the actually populated sections being built into the thick circle, which left quite a sizeable space open. The main walkway was connected to various others, all meeting in a central dais.

As she buttoned up her coat once again, Brea glanced at the darkness and imagined the debris, the leftover masonry, the unsafe and faulty missiles, there was hard stone mixed with arcoconcrete, slick and bone white, all riddled with trinkets and broken weapons, mementos of those that had died.

She shivered and turned away. 

Oura led Brea to the dormitories. The hallways were lit up only by the pale, fluorescent lights lining the ceiling that drew shadows on the corners. The hallway was so silent that Brea could hear the echo of their footsteps.

“Lights out was five minutes ago.” Oura said, “As you know, we don’t have a natural day-night cycle here.”

“You ensure stable circadian rhythm via enforced curfew, yes. It was the same.”

“Of course. Ah, right this way.”

The said room was a near-exact duplicate of Ocean Garden dormitories. To doors, one directly ahead of the entrance, and the other to the left, led to the bedroom sections. Kitchen on the left, bathroom on the right, and the small, yet not too small living space crammed in between. The remodeling of Trabia Garden after the reconstruction was done by the same architect the late Cid Kramer had hired to construct Balamb Garden’s interiors, Brea knew.

“This’ll do.”

“Alright then, General. If there is anything you need, our faculty is available at all hours. Their extension is 123.”

“Thank you.

“I will see you tomorrow.” Oura said with a smile that made Brea see that there was something hiding behind it.

Oura shut the door on her way out. Brea listened in. Oura's footsteps faded out. She glanced around the room. Caution advised that somebody could’ve been listening – it wasn’t inconceivable that the room was bugged.

She dug into her coat pocket and took out her comm-link. She slowly opened the door and stuck out her head to peer down the hallway, both sides. When she was sure she was alone, she stepped out.

* * *

Selphie felt a small tear on the arm of the couch with her toes. It was a little flap of fabric, too small to be seen but maddeningly there. She kept prodding it gently, feeling it resist just a bit... just a tad.

Ravages of time on the couch. Still here, still holding on after all these years; a relic from a life that, to her, seemed to be more life-like than what she felt now.

One of her hands rested between her legs, fingers glued to her inner thigh. The other was held by Squall, currently lying under her, scanning the itinerary for the renewal of the Tripartite Treaties. Having him near, having him so damn near made Selphie uncomfortable in a way that she adored. She loved the discomfort of it. His skin, riddled with scars; like hers but shallower. His muscular body, still a contrast to her waifish form, even after all the heavy lifting.

Every once in a while, he would land a kiss on top of her head. No words, no assurances, just a kiss – as if he wanted to make sure she still existed.

_It’s like you’re still afraid I’ll disappear when you aren’t looking._

For Squall, the document in his hand was a portal to other parts of the world, viewing only the future. As he read, in his mind’s eye, the words transcribed in a neat typeset began reflecting a chessboard, and he started witnessing the moves. His comm-link on the coffee table began to buzz, bringing him out of zugzwang. Squall picked it up.

Selphie kept prodding at the tear.

_“Good evening, sir.”_

“Evening, Brea. Report.”

_“They’ve given me a room. I’ll begin my assessment of Rhea Grenn tomorrow.”_

“Good. Keep me posted.”

_“...sir, there is something else.”_

“Yes?”

_“Did you know that Headmaster Sun Aeryn was assassinated by his Vice?”_

Squall stopped. He put down the pages.

“What gave you that impression?”

_“Oura Synn, sir. She’s only the Acting Headmaster, but the way she acted... suggests there is more to it than just that. I figured.”_

Squall sighed.

“Yes, his death wasn’t a suicide.”

A moment’s pause.

_“With all due respect, sir, why the hell was I not informed?”_

“It was done under my orders. You would be culpable if you knew... which, I guess, is no longer a concern.”

_“Why was my culpability a concern?”_

“Aeryn was in talks with the Galbadian government about planting an exclusive weapons cache in the Moldlet Plains without getting clearance from the Estharian Parliament.”

_“Doesn’t Trabia Garden have a cache near the Estharian border already?”_

“_Trabia_ does. Galbadia doesn’t, and they can’t. What they intended to place there constituted a military outpost, at least in theory. It’d need a Master-at-Arms to maintain it, and even if someone wasn’t physically there, it’d still be an incursion. Estharian intelligence intercepted some of the later negotiations. Since we are the arbiter of intercontinental affairs, and since they couldn’t admit to spying on Galbadia, I agreed to take care of it. I sent Quistis. Aeryn denied all knowledge.”

_“Why have Oura kill him? Couldn’t one of ours? A sub-contractor, even?”_

Squall leaned back and glanced at the ceiling. He could see the grid cut into the tiles.

“Because an acting Headmaster can’t transition into Headmaster proper without a vote from the instructors. Oura thinks she has it. She doesn’t. Everyone knows that Oura wanted the position, but Aeryn wouldn’t name her his successor. This way, she doesn’t just look guilty, but she doesn’t know that she does. She’s got three, maybe four months on the outside before she’s ousted via the conclave. She won’t do anyone any harm from where she is after that.”

Silence on the line.

“_I understand, sir.”_

“Is there anything else?”

_“No, sir.”_

“Get some rest.”

_“Yes, sir.”_


	7. The Sleep of Innocents

**(Brea sees the end. A conflict.)**

* * *

Rhea was sure that the acoustics of the training ground amplified the sound of her heart beating furiously in her chest, sending little echoes all around, making the entire room pulsate to its rhythm. She kept pulling at her jacket. It just wouldn’t sit right and the uniform she had trained in, went out into the mountains in, had faced monsters and sparring partners alike in was ill-fitting and uncomfortable beyond the telling of it.

The room wasn’t helping. The sparring arena was one of the clustered arenas that stuck out of the Eastern wing of Trabia Garden. Like the others, it was a circular room with a domed, armored-glass roof that let in the dead white sunlight, its presence amplified by the white, smooth surfaces. The walls were lined with racks and benches, following the circular shape, and the actual staging ground was an elevated dais that took up most of the space. Presently, Rhea was standing very near the edge of it, away from the entrance.

The sword in her hands felt like condemnation already. The General was a sharpshooter. Rhea had heard that she could judge other disciplines just as well as she could her own, but knew what their weapons meant for each and every one of them, herself included. You lived by the weapon and you died by the weapon, whatever it was.

_Except mages, I think. Their weapon is para-magic, after all._

She glanced at her wrist watch again. She had been waiting for exactly three minutes. Three minutes, five seconds. Three minutes, ten seconds. Three minutes, fifteen sec-

The double doors leading into the Training Center opened, letting in a gust of wind and a flurry of snow; and along with those, Brea Willings, wrapped in her greatcoat. Rhea immediately stood to attention. Brea didn’t even look at her. She went to the nearest bench and took off her coat. Rhea watched, her anticipation growing, as she hung her coat, and took off her jacket as well, leaving only a white button-up shirt, adorned with a navy blue tie. She rolled her sleeves up.

Rhea could hear her combat boots tapping on the ground as she approached, each individual step emitting the same amount and kind of sound. Her red hair was damp from the outside, tips clinging together, and she was studying her with a pensive glare.

Brea stopped three steps from Rhea. Rhea began to feel her anxiety cease, leaving behind a steadily creeping nausea instead. Great. Now she would have the privilege of vomiting all over the General’s boots.

“Name, rank, specialty.” Brea said.

_I can do this, _Rhea thought.

“Rhea Grenn, Senior Level, Class B, field mage, sir!”

“No need to shout.”

“My apologies, sir.” Rhea lowered her voice. Her stomach was churning. _Not now, please, not now._

“Do you know why I’m here?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Well, then.” Brea took two, three steps back. Rhea took a deep breath. Her nausea subsided somewhat, now that the General was a bit further away. Brea bent down and pulled out a dagger from inside her boot. Thin, Adamantine, sturdy and with an excellent polymer grip, it weighted practically nothing in her hand. She flipped it, held it by the blade and gave it a few whirls, demonstrating skillful fingers that could do much more than just pulling triggers. She then held it with a reverse-grip and pressed her thumb onto the bottom of the hilt.

“Let’s go, cadet.” Brea said.

“Sir, you only have a dagge-“

Brea took two steps forward, spun and threw a roundhouse kick. Her boot landed on Rhea’s stomach cavity and knocked the wind out of her. As Rhea stumbled back, Rhea pulled out one of her pistols with her free hand. An instant and Rhea, breathless, was right in her sights.

Rhea’s hand shot forward just as Brea’s finger found the trigger.

_“Float!”_

Brea’s feet left the ground. She rose three feet into the air and remained there. She holstered her pistol. Rhea took her opening stance, the same one Squall favored. Brea tapped herself on the chest.

_“Dispel.”_

She landed on her feet. Rhea still hadn’t made a move.

“You gained an advantage.” Brea said, “You should’ve used it. Now I know what your secondary weapon is.” She tapped her chest again, _“Reflect.”_

Rhea followed suit and cast a Reflect spell on herself.

“Clever.” Brea said, “But this only forces you to engage me directly.”

“You only have a dagger, sir.” Rhea said.

Brea smiled. “That’s why it’s not a fair fight.”

Brea moved. Rhea barely had time to counter the forward jab. She side-stepped a kick, angling her sword down to wind up a blow, but before she could do anything, Brea was on her, dagger gleaming as Rhea cocked her head sideways. The blade missed her neck by a hair’s breadth, allowing her time to grab her sword with her free hand and push it in a quarter-circle, moving the edge towards Brea’s side. Brea spun twice and avoided the blade. Rhea tilted the sword and came at Brea with a series of swings, her movements flowing into one another seamlessly, allowing her to advance step by step as Brea ducked and evaded.

Rhea didn’t notice Brea slowly strafing with half-steps, leading the cadet into favoring her right with every move. Once she had traced a semi-circle, Brea timed a swing, and immediately moved forward to Rhea’s left. Her heel struck the side of her leg, at the knee, and Rhea lost her balance, allowing Brea to deliver another kick to her side. In a flash, Brea’s arm snaked around Rhea’s torso, and the dagger found her neck.

They stood, slightly out of breath, as Rhea felt her nausea reach its peak. Bile was rising, and the cold blade on her throat wouldn’t be able to stop it.

“Drop the sword.” Brea said.

Rhea complied. She clenched her teeth. Cold sweat was pouring out of every pore, her insides pulsing until...

Brea let her go the instant she started to vomit. Rhea fell to her knees and continued to throw up, retching each time. Brea took the time to slide her dagger back into her boot. When she straightened her back, Rhea was left a mess, coughing and trying to breathe.

“S-s-s-o I-I’m s-s-s-o...” Rhea stammered as she peered at Brea through her hair, the back of her hand firmly pressed against her mouth. The look in her eyes, one of apology, and of fear that she would be found wanting, made Brea’s palms itch. She shrugged it off and crouched.

“You did good, Rhea.” She said with a gentle smile, “I think you might’ve been more nervous than you thought.”

“It might be...” Rhea took a deep breath, “...something I ate, sir. I know it’s not an excuse...”

“If you were a SeeD in the field, and had cost us an op because of an upset stomach, it wouldn’t be. But I know how... intimidating, let's say, it can be. How intimidating _we_ can be.”

“I’m sorry, sir, I-“

“Just learn to sense when you’re being led.” Brea said, standing back up, “Now, report to the Infirmary.”

“Yes, sir.” Rhea hung her head.

* * *

Elise wondered if she should consider it an achievement or a failure if she was being chided by Quistis Trepe not one month into her presidency. Then again, she had chosen to open the can of worms that was the Edea Sanction, rather than just going with it as everyone (Mir included) had told her to. It wasn’t that she didn’t understand, it was that she couldn’t comprehend.

Her fingers wrapped around her mug, the ceramic warm now that her coffee was lukewarm, and squeezed. Her head was full of terminology – immunity, impunity, black op, covert, security...

Quistis Trepe was speaking.

_“...basically, the Edea Sanction is there to ensure we can operate freely where a sorceress is concerned. If an individual comes under suspicion, if intelligence reports a possible risk, or if we determine that there is reason to do so, SeeD can undertake a black op on any soil with complete immunity from the law where our actions are concerned.”_

“And General Willings was undertaking such an operation during the reception.”

_“Yes.”_

“Covert operations on Estharian soil without our knowledge or consent, breaking and entering, attempted assault with a deadly weapon, unauthorized medical testing of a minor, not to mention endangering the said minor by introducing a heavy metal to her bloodstream... all in what? An hour?”

_“Fifteen minutes.”_

Elise clenched her teeth.

“No.” she said, “Of all the other privileges you were afforded in the past, this is the most atrocious, to say the least. Laguna Loire may have let you run free, but...”

_“I would stop right there, Madame President. If you know about it already, which you should, you know that the Sanction is absolute and non-negotiable. The Parliamentary Decree that made it possible is iron-clad and so is the Presidential Order that solidifies it. If I were you, I would stop questioning the wisdom of it.”_

“Wisdom? You’re telling me that you can have someone hold a gun to a nine year-old’s head, or have her father potentially gunned down in his own home just because he was there, and that this is wisdom? Are you serious?”

_“You’re at a line, Madame President.”_

“Am I? I’m not going to allow you to just march into Esthar and do what you please because a para-magic sensitive kid can play with a fucking Draw Point, and lie to my face about it when your _operative_ shows up! No, I’m pulling the plug on this, starting now and-”

The speakers of the phone buzzed as Quistis raised her voice.

_“Listen to me, and listen good. We couldn’t get to Edea in time during the Second War because we were tied up in red tape. We couldn’t deal with Rinoa sooner and more effectively because of red tape – hell, the only reason why Rinoa could rise to Presidency is because she exploited Galbadian law! The Sorceress is _our_ jurisdiction. We proposed the Sanction so that when the time came, we could operate without having to put up with bureaucratic bullshit, and it was your own Parliament that approved it. Are you telling me, seriously, that you are considering breaking the same law you swore to uphold not one month ago?”_

“That doesn’t mean-“

_“First the Deep Sea Research Center, and now this.”_ Quistis sighed, _“Esthar has been an ally for so many years. We didn’t abuse that privilege, but you’re acting like we’re shadowy tyrants.”_

_Aren’t you? _Elise wanted to ask. She held her tongue firmly behind her teeth.

_“In any case... like I said, the Edea Sanction is non-negotiable. End of discussion.”_ Quistis said, _“Was there anything else?”_

“No.” Elise said, “That will be all.”

_“Good day, Madame President.”_

* * *

The wind outside was going to make it difficult to be heard, so Brea hugged the corner, wedging herself between a small, rectangular crevice away from prying eyes, and cupped her hand over the comm-link.

_“Report.”_

“The first test was a positive, sir.” Brea said, “She got nauseous to the point of vomiting. She did manage to fight, and fight well enough, so I believe the blood test will be necessary.”

_“Where is she now?”_

“The Infirmary. They’ve already been instructed to sedate her under the guise of calming her nerves. I’ll be heading there shortly.”

_“Does Oura Synn know?”_

“She knows the official story, that we’re cautious about our mages.”

_“Good. Maintain that illusion.”_

“Yes, sir.”

* * *

Elise Galloway stared at the pile of data-slates cluttering her desk. The list of people who had been on the receiving end of Ocean Garden’s “benevolence” over the years. All ages, all backgrounds, all sectors and sub-sectors. What was more appalling for her was that it was also all hours of the day. Nothing too public, of course, but still... in broad daylight.

There was a tiny paragraph, sometimes only a sentence or two, under each report. The section was titled **Reason and Justification.**

This confused Elise. Why give a reason for anything at all when they could do whatever they wanted? She supposed that it was so that they would have an out if things went sideways. To have a place to hide after trampling on the sleep of innocents.

In her mind’s eye, she was still looking outside her bedroom window. 42nd floor, allowing her a view of Esthar City that she adored. Years ago and there she was, watching the missiles fall. A girl of nine years old, hands pressed against the glass in a way her parents constantly told her not to do, eyes wide as the Blitz tore all the places she had known right down.

Another part of her remembered the SeeD working with the engineers and the laborers, rebuilding what once was exactly as it was, not one brick out of place. She remembered struggling with the idea that these nice people were the same ones who had done this to her home.

Elise shook her head to stop her thoughts from circling. She drank the last of her coffee and began to organize the data slates.

* * *

Brea slid into the elliptical wall of nylon curtains ringing the stretcher upon which Rhea was asleep. Just to make sure, she cast a LVL4 Sleep spell on the girl. Once she was certain they were alone, Brea unbuttoned her jacket and undid the first four buttons of her shirt. She reached in and pulled out Squall’s necklace. She held the sharp tip between her index and middle fingers. With her free hand, she rolled up Rhea’s shirt sleeve, just enough to find the spot.

With a sigh, she pressed the sharp tip onto her skin. It sunk in without much resistance. Brea pulled it out and waited.

She didn’t have to wait long. The blood staining the tip of the necklace began to sizzle, rapidly becoming riddled with tiny bubbles. Emitting a faint hiss, the blood began to boil, thin streams of steam rising as it evaporated. A minute or less and the tip was clean once again.

Brea put on the necklace, buttoned up her shirt and jacket. She looked at Rhea. The cadet looked worn out, pale and glad to be resting.

She looked... innocent. Defenseless.

Who was she, Brea wondered, before Trabia? She had read her file, knew that Rhea Grenn was a Blitz orphan, but that didn’t tell her _who_ she was. What did she dream about, Brea wondered, was it of better days? Was it of battles or just someone she cared about? Or was it the nightmare of the Esthar City Blitz?

Looking at her, Brea saw the end.

“...and it’s not even your fault.” Brea whispered, knowing that she wouldn’t hear.


	8. The Killer is Me

**(A bullet goes missing.)**

* * *

The morning was a strange blur for Rhea. She got up, had breakfast, went out for her daily duties. She manned the communications station for a while (a lot of hovercraft traffic in the next few days, it seemed.) She went to the Training Center and sparred with Logan, a very cute swordsman who was at the top of the shortlist for SeeD. The nausea was gone, but her shame from it hadn’t. She got few good shots into Logan, and was convinced that Logan was letting her gain the upper hand. He said nothing and Rhea knew that he probably wasn’t thinking she was a loser anyway.

It took some more convincing during lunch (Snow Lion steak sandwiches, right next to the thirty-below vegetables and grain pudding), when General Willings still hadn’t made an appearance.

Rhea took to the shooting gallery to see if she was there, hoping against hope that she would stoop to rubbing shoulders with unlisted recruits. She managed to catch a glimpse of her just as she approached the section; there she was, buttoning up her greatcoat.

“General Willings, sir!”

Brea looked up from the buttons and at Rhea, running through the snow to get to her. Coming within five steps of her made Rhea woozy. Three steps, and she stopped, and her nervous spell was back in full-force.

“Rhea.” Brea stuck her hands into her coats’ pockets, looking for her gloves. Rhea saluted her.

“Sir, I just wanted to apologize for what happened yesterday, I...” she was struggling to keep her vision from blurring, just what the hell about this woman made her such a wreck? “I can do better. I can be better.”

“No need.” Brea shook her head, “It was a solid performance. It wasn’t perfect, but for a recruit, I don’t look for that.”

“S-so...” Rhea swallowed hard, “Permission to speak freely, sir?”

“Granted.”

“When can I try again?”

“Tonight.” Brea replied, “You are going to take me out on patrol.”

Rhea’s eyes grew wide. What?

“C-come again?”

“You take more patrols than any other cadet. Scouting terrain, being mindful of your surroundings is as important as knowing how to use a sword.”

Rhea’s face lit up, even as her dizzy spell continued. She remembered what had put her on the General’s radar – that had been a patrol night.

“What time do you usually start?”

“8 P.M., sir.” Rhea said, “After the free period ends.”

“Where do you start from?”

“The Southern side, sir.”

“I will see you there.”

* * *

For Brea, the interim hours just wouldn’t pass. Time seemed to have slowed to a crawl, and having nothing to do but to explore Trabia, Brea opted to retreat into her room and shut it out. She checked in on Squall once, but the conversation was brief, as it always was, and didn’t do anything for her.

She remembered that this was why she hated playing the role of the sniper – the build-up period was simply too maddeningly vague, too empty of function or meaning. She laid down on her bed and stared at the ceiling.

For Rhea, the day was something in the background. Her mind was focused, for the most part, on her patrolling routine; if she had a moment, she could see the terrain as a three-dimensional map, complete with colors marking pathways, beacons, places where she had to steer a bit closer to a monster nest, the woods that she might run to, the woods she shouldn’t run to, expected weather conditions...

“Rhea!” Denize snapped her fingers. Rhea shook her head to suspend her thoughts. The low, idle chatter of the library faded in, as well as the sight of the textbook open in front of her, “Where are you?” Denize asked.

“Sorry.” Rhea replied, eyes scanning the text, where was she, again? “I’m just nervous.”

“Why?”

“I screwed up the first time around. I don’t wanna do it again.”

“Relax. The fact that we’re having this conversation right now is proof enough that you’ve got this.”

Rhea smiled meekly.

* * *

Rhea found the General standing by the reinforced exit hatch, her hands in her greatcoat’s pockets, waiting patiently. She braced herself and moved forward. The nausea began in earnest as she got closer, so Rhea opted to stay a few steps away to salute her.

“Rhea Grenn, reporting for duty, sir!”

“As you were.” Brea said, “Now. Lead the way, please.”

Brea stepped aside. Rhea went up to the exit hatch, which was sealed manually via a wheel. It could be opened from the outside by undoing the four sets of locks, each one tied to the wheel. Rhea gave the wheel a good turn, and she heard the locks disengaging one by one. She pushed the hatch open, inviting in the wind and the snow. She stepped out, followed by Brea. As Rhea closed the hatch, Brea looked up. Darkness was falling fast, and the sky was shifting from the semi-light of the day to the pitch-black.

“This way, sir.” Rhea said.

They started to walk under the starless sky, ankle-deep in the snow. Their steps crunched while the white fell gently all around – a gift from the faeries, Selphie would say. Brea maintained her distance, not wanting Rhea to collapse again this close to the Garden. There was no avoiding what she was out here to do, but she could spare the cadet the discomfort.

As she followed the trail, Rhea enthusiastically explained the finer points of patrolling. The trail was maintained rigorously through the semi-regular snow, tracing a line around several obstacles and monster grounds, as was meant to alert the Garden of any intruders or monster hordes, as well as look out for cadets with late scouting training exercises. She explained how solitary Snow Lions were more dangerous than the families, as the isolation tended to drive them mad.

Brea listened with feigned interest, not allowing any of it to penetrate. She ignored the girl’s enthusiasm by keeping track of how far they were from the Garden and how they had gotten there. The trail went further into the mountains, she saw, and it was an uphill climb. This meant giving Rhea the high ground,

Halfway into a lecture brought on more by nerves, the ground under Brea’s boots leveled out. She glanced around to see that it was a rather large stretch that, up ahead, ended with yet another hill.

Rhea was just three steps away. It was time.

Brea pointed at Rhea.

_“Sleep.”_

The warm, purple glow of the spell lit up in the night. Nothing happened, except Rhea turned around, apprehensive, wondering if this was a test.

_Shit._

“Sir, wha-“

_“Silence!”_

The power word arrested Rhea’s tongue. Brea drew one of her pistols as Rhea, convinced that this was another combat exercise, shifted to take guard. Brea moved in fast. Her approach came with a dizzy spell for Rhea, which gave Brea time to pistol-whip her, hard. Brea spun and went down, face-first, into the snow.

Brea circled around her to face her when she looked up. She pointed at the cadet trying to find balance in the world.

_“Dispel.”_

Rhea blinked rapidly and felt the bump forming on her head keenly. She pushed the ground and wiped the snow off of her face. Her sword was still by her side. She took it. She stabbed it into the ground, to use it as a crutch, and that was when she looked ahead, her eyes adjusting, and saw Brea Willings, standing in front of her... or, more accurately, the dark depths of one of Brea’s twin pistols, currently aimed at her head.

“S-s-sir..?”

_...is this a test? Did I just fail?_

Brea didn’t respond. Instead, she undid the top button of her coat, top two buttons of her jacket, and reached into her uniform to pull out her necklaces. One was a cross, unremarkable to anyone but the wearer. The other, Rhea recognized instantly – Squall Leonhart’s. The ornate lion cross was a dead giveaway.

“You know what this is.” Brea said, as she slid the other cross back inside her uniform. Her pistol was still aimed at Rhea’s head.

Rhea nodded. The nausea was back, and was worse than ever; it was as if any second now, her stomach would make an exit through her mouth.

“It’s made of pure Odineum.” Brea said, “The nausea you’ve been feeling whenever you are near me is the metal resonating with your aura, except inversely. Basically, it’s cancelling it out.”

“I don’t... I don’t understand, sir.” Rhea managed.

“You’re a sorceress, Rhea.” Brea said.

Rhea’s eyes flew open as her thoughts came to a screeching halt.

“Your aptitude for blue magic was the first indicator. The way you react to this necklace is the second. Your blood also reacts rather... violently to Odineum. Even your name fits.”

“B-but I’m just a cadet, I-“

“Combustion is not a blue magic ability, neither are some other feats you’ve accomplished. They can’t be learned by any... _natural_ means.”

“I learned it from a claw tip, it was broken, I could see the veins inside and-“

“So did many other blue mages. They were the ones who created our knowledge of anatomy, by studying every component of the body. But none achieved what you have and none,” Brea took a step closer, causing Rhea to retch and cup a hand over her mouth, “, would react to Odineum like you do.”

Brea put the necklace away. With several layers of thick cloth between it and her, Rhea felt the nausea lessen, if only slightly.

“I didn’t come here to recruit you.” Brea said, “I came here to kill you. I’m sorry.”

Brea let the words sink in for a moment. She could see Rhea’s mind working up a storm, rushing through the five stages of grief, aided by the gun barrel pointed at her, the knowledge that the hand holding the gun was as steady as a surgeon’s hand around a scalpel, and that SeeD existed to kill the sorceress. After a few moments, Rhea hung her head. She looked at her hands, fingers dipped into the snow.

For a moment, she thought about all that she would have –should have- been.

“When did you find out..?” Rhea asked.

“After our training session, while you were in the Infirmary.”

“Why didn’t you do it then?”

“Not that simple.” Brea replied, “If I just shot you, you’d be trapped in a state of non-death. You’d be neither dead nor alive, until you passed on your powers.”

“Like the Forbidden...”

“Yes.”

Rhea hung her head. “...I don’t want that.”

“Your only other option is to kill yourself.” Brea said, the wind howling in her ear. For a moment, she thought she heard something shifting in the woods, but shrugged it off, “I need your consent to shoot you.”

Rhea shot Brea a confused glare. A moment ago, she had experienced a total loss of control, her life had ceased being hers. Now, it was in her hands again.

“Refuse, and I’ll shoot anyway. Because you can stop me if you want to, just your consent is enough to make this a suicide.” Brea said.

Something shifted behind Rhea’s eyes. Brea caught it.

Resolve.

“Then do it.” Rhea said.

Brea felt the curve of the trigger.

“None of this is your fault, Rhea. I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.”

“Just... go ahead.”

That was the last thing Brea heard before everything went black.

When Brea opened her eyes, she was lying face-down in the snow, her body freezing beneath layers and layers of clothing. She felt the time-slip keenly – how long had she been out?

_Rhea._

Brea shifted. She braced herself and forced her body to move. She felt like there were weights tied to every possible joint, the onset of hypothermia. When she got up to her knees, the first thing she saw was her pistol, lying in the snow.

The second thing was Rhea’s body, lying on her back, eyes still open, and with a hole in her forehead. Brea picked up her gun and ejected the clip. Eleven bullets.

_One shot. But did I fire it?_

Her sharpshooter training flooded her. One of the many rules: anybody could pick up a gun and fire it with any degree of accuracy. It was important to know when you had fired a gun – as important as keeping track of how many shots you had fired in a firefight.

_One shot._

Her mind felt sluggish. Brea forced herself to get up and take a deep breath to clear her head. She went over to Rhea’s corpse and knelt beside it. She checked for a pulse.

_She’s dead._

Her hand automatically went for her comm-link. She clicked it on and clicked for the long-distance channel. She holstered her pistol and closed Rhea’s eyes while she waited.

_“Yes, Brea?” _Squall’s voice answered.

“Sir. Objective complete, sir. Rhea Grenn is dead.”

_“Well done.”_

“There was a... complication, sir.”

_“Like what?”_

“I’m not sure that it was me who did it.”

_“Explain.”_

“I blacked out prior to the shot, sir. I don’t know how long I have been out. I checked my gun. One shot fired. I’m willing to bet that the entry wound will back up the theory that I took the shot.”

_“She might’ve tried her hand at a Sleep spell...”_

“...a split second after I pulled the trigger, yes. It is plausible, sir.”

_“...but you’re not buying it.”_

“Are you?”

_“No. Do you have anything in the Garden?”_

“Just what I took with me, sir.”

_“I’ll notify Squad Zeta. They’ll recover the body. Once they arrive, you can go back, but until then, stay alert.”_

“Yes, sir. General Willings, out.”

_“Over and out.”_

Brea found a rock a few steps away from Rhea’s body and sat down, pistols in hand. Her boot sunk into a boot print, barely glazed over by the light snow. She made note of it.

* * *

Brea listened to the wind. The landscape was painted white, barely touched, pure and losing its glow fast as the meager yet sharp daylight faded slowly. Apart from her rock and several other protrusions of the hill, there was only a blanket of snow.

Rhea’s body laid, sprawled on the ground, in its shallow grave of white. Her eyes were closed. She looked just like she had in the Infirmary. The body of proof. The proof of what; Brea wasn’t sure.

She felt the weight of the cross hanging from her neck. Not the tool, not the lion that meant so much to him, but the other cross. Her cross.

Their cross.

_If you could see me now, Jake. If only you were here._

Brea thought that she had enough time to maybe indulge herself and cry.

_...they made a killer out of me._

Brea shivered. It was cold. All those men and women she had taken to her bed, that swordsman (what was his name again?), all the cadets and SeeDs; so many years, so many victories and she still felt the cold inside. It was still the same hurt. Peace was ephemeral and war was forever, but this little, pin-prick void in her chest would see war die.

Unable to look away from Rhea’s body, Brea sat there. With her pistols still in hand, weighing heavy like condemnation, she cried freely, listening to the wind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Brea's advice in the previous chapter, "learn to sense when you are being led" applies perfectly to what, in the end, proves to be Rhea's downfall, in a way, mainly because Brea "leads" her into the situation, just as she has led her into making a mistake during their "sparring" session.
> 
> The thing about blue mages discovering "how things worked" i.e. anatomy is, I think, a very fitting notion: given that blue magic is learned via certain objects and is basically an imitation of function, it wouldn't be that far-fetched to think that shamans / blue mages could have done some "academic" research in times long past. Blue magic is, far as I can tell, an innate ability, so it is not inconceviable that they could see how other things work. This is reflective of how magic forms the basis of and gives way to science.


	9. The Terms of Conflict

**(Discovered attack. Legends storm an office.)**

* * *

Quistis stared at the reports in her hands in complete disbelief. It wasn’t just the time stamps that placed them yesterday; not that the intelligence cadre had seen fit not to flag them as urgent; not that they had instead organized them neatly and presented to her after the fact... she got the reports every two days, but the red flag items were a different matter entirely.

...and these items raised an entire field of red flags.

Seifer, watching from the armchair across the living room, decided wisely to make himself scarce. He got up and went to the kitchen. He opened the fridge, and took out a bottle of iced tea and poured himself a glass, careful not to hold the glass in his hand for too long, because he never quite knew when-

“_Fuck this!”_

Seifer flinched. There it was.

“Somebody’s gonna get thrown to the fish for this.” Quistis snarled, “Great Hyne and Vascaroon...”

“What is it?” Seifer asked.

“Those fuckheads we’re paying good Gil to gather intelligence intercepted a series of calls from the Trabia Garden to the Esthar Presidential Palace, and decided to let it ride! Does anyone know how to use a fucking red flag up there!? Great Hyne, no, fuck that.”

She reached for the phone. Seifer knocked back the glass. He knew the extension already. She put it on speaker.

_“What is it, Quisty?” _Selphie’s voice chimed in.

“Is Brea back yet?”

_“No. She was waiting for Squad Zeta, last I heard. What’s up?”_

“Is Squall there?”

_“Catching up on some martial arts training. I was just about to join him.”_

“Sorry that I have to break that up. Tell him to hit the showers.”

_“Quisty?”_

“As soon as possible, Selphie. Get cleaned up, or not, but get in uniform and meet me as soon as possible. We have somewhere we need to be.”

_“Hmm... okay. Be seeing ya!”_

Seifer considered it. To him, it was clear that they had just gotten fucked over. The perfect end to an otherwise unremarkable and therefore perfect, evening. He stretched. He noticed that he was still in uniform, with his jacket having been forgotten on the arm of the couch. He tried to remember a time when the only article of clothing he needed was the uniform.

On the other side of the coin, he could see his wife steaming where she sat, reading the same two pages for the third time.

“Fuck, I’m gonna regret asking this...” he said, “...but who fucked us over this time?”

Quistis grabbed her comm-link and turned it on. 

* * *

The only light source keeping the various monsters of the mountain at bay was the headlights of the SeeD hovercraft. Brea had long since holstered her pistols. She was watching the members of Squad Zeta, their faces now obscured by their hats, twist Rhea’s body into a plank shape so that she could be fit inside the body bag, and inside the hovercraft.

The members of Squad Zeta were all familiar to her, having helped her in many Esthar missions. Then again, she had also assisted in picking its members out. Squall Leonhart’s personal squad, a mark of his constant presence on the continent; their counterpart was Squad Theta, unofficially known as Squad Trepe, stationed in Deling. Their familiarity was the only thing that prevented Brea from putting her guard up completely. They were allowed to see what she felt about the whole thing. These were the same people that she had undressed to nothing in front of on the night she had held a gun to Evange Kale’s head; and they had barely reacted. They weren’t reacting to her looking worn out.

Her comm-link buzzed to life.

“This is the General.”

_“Rhea, it’s Quistis; where are you?”_

“Outside the Trabia Garden perimeter, sir.” Rhea said, “We were just wrapping up here.”

_“Oh, thank Hyne... listen, I need you to go back there. Take Squad Zeta with you.”_

The last place she wanted to go to, in that moment.

“Yes, sir.” Brea said, “What are my orders?”

_“Oura Synn’s been in correspondence with Elise Galloway. Her last call to the Presidential Palace was a little while after your last call to us, before you went out on patrol with Rhea. If I’m sufficiently paranoid, and I am by now, I’d say she was reporting your movements.”_

Something clicked in Brea’s head. The footprints.

“Yes, sir. What will you do?”

_“We can’t wait for you, so we’ll do it on two fronts. Keep the channel open.”_

“Yes, sir.” 

* * *

Esthar City glowed in shades of turquoise and purple in the distance. The cafeteria of the Palace was placed on the top floor, providing her with a 360 view; an old custom. The architect had been, far as Elise knew, somewhat of a scripture aficionado and had arranged most of the palace in accordance with Vascaroon’s teachings. The high-rise cafeteria, lined all around with armored glass all the way to its domed ceiling, was this way to teach her pride in her dominion, but to humble her by showing her the vastness of it.

Elise could care less.

What she cared about was the lettuce-tomato-diced grilled Chocobo breast sandwich, fries and soda she was ravenously making her way through. Something about a rush of carbohydrates after a day of managing an entire continent that soothed her... making her almost forget that, President or not, she still had to pay for the food.

Elise took another sip from her soda, and that was when blinding, white lights flooded the cafeteria. She lifted her arm over her eyes, still chewing, and caught a glimpse of the scarlet, metal dragon descending.

The food soured in her mouth. But she had no intention of leaving her dinner unfinished.

* * *

Oura Synn jumped up from her seat, sending two pages of the report she was managing flying away from the desk. Her hand went directly to her sword, propped up against her chair. Her fingers had just curled around the handle when Brea, her coat a storm behind her, walked in with one pistol raised.

“Drop it.” Brea instructed.

Oura hesitated. If she had time for a Haste spell, she could disarm the General without much trouble, but was her jaw faster than a bullet?

Seeing her hesitation, Brea put a little pressure on the trigger and shifted her aim to Oura’s shoulder.

“I won’t ask twice.”

Oura hissed through her teeth and released the sword. She put her hands up.

“Who killed Rhea Grenn?” Brea asked.

Oura blinked. “Rhea Grenn is dead?”

Brea fired off a shot. The bullet tore right through Oura’s open palm, eliciting a scream from her.

Two members of Squad Zeta – Liyr the swordsman and Jenn the mage, rushed into the room.

“Are you alright, sir?” Jenn asked as Oura continued to scream.

“Yes.” Brea said, “Liyr. Go to the security hub. I want a full report of the past hour’s air traffic. Use any means necessary to obtain the information.”

“Yes, sir!”

“Jenn, wait outside.”

“Yes, sir.”

“You nearly shot my fucking hand off!” Oura shouted, holding her injured hand by the wrist, “Fucking Hyne...”

“Who killed Rhea Grenn?” Brea asked.

“I don’t know! Look, if you just-”

“Don’t test me, Oura.”

“Shit... alright. Mind if I sit down?”

Brea nodded. Oura sat back down. She nudged her sword with her elbow and it clattered onto the ground. Just to be safe. Her hand was burning, every nerve ending was on fire. She let go for a moment and pulled off her tie. As she wrapped it around the wound, the most palliative of palliative measures to be sure, she glanced at Brea, who hadn’t even flinched.

Then again, Oura knew how Fury Caraway had died. It was an important passage on their basic books about intelligence gathering.

“I made a deal with Elise Galloway.” Oura said, “Because I’m not stupid. I knew your precious Grand Master wasn’t going to leave Trabia to me. I got my hands dirty to be where I am now, after all. Scheme recognizes scheme.”

Brea set her shock aside. Just for now. “What was the deal?”

“She said she’d make a move, _fuck_ this hurts... that she’d balance you out and make sure I got the vote.”

“And she did this out of the goodness of her heart?”

“I wasn’t finished.” Oura flashed a strained grin, “The only thing I had to do was to report on your movements if you came calling.”

The gears in Brea’s head were turning. The barrel of her pistol didn’t waver as she processed what she had just learned.

“My question.” Oura said, “Is Rhea Grenn dead?”

Something clicked in Brea’s head.

“You really don’t know.” Brea said.

“Know what? Look, Acting Headmaster or not, Rhea Grenn is my responsibility – is she dead?”

“Yes. She is.” Brea said.

“Why?” Oura asked.

“That’s not important.” Brea said, “Drop it.”

“Hell, I don’t even know why she was so important in the first place anyway. I mean, Aeryn had a folder with Leonhart’s name on it, but the only recent profile was Rhea’s, you’ve already scouted the others. All different disciplines, except... for...” she trailed off. Brea could see the pieces falling into place in her head, “...blue mage. She was a blue mage.” She grinned, “Fucking Hyne, that’s why you people have been singling out cadets all these years – you were _looking_ for her! Rhea was a sor-”

A single gunshot boomed in the room, its echoes bouncing off the walls.

* * *

By a stroke of luck, Elise made it back to her office before they made their way to it. She glanced at the elevator. The runic display atop it showed that it was -they were- coming. Elise walked without hurry. The double doors to her office slid open and she went inside just as she heard the elevator chime the arrival of her visitors. Deciding that sitting behind her desk would be a touch too serious, she decided to lean on her desk and cross her arms.

She had just gotten a bit comfortable when the doors hissed open, letting through her expected guests: the Fated Children. Elise noted the absence of Brea. They stood in the middle of the room, fanned out, with Squall Leonhart, decked out in full ceremonial uniform, in the middle.

_Funny. _Elise thought, _He seems a bit... smaller._

“I have only one question.” Squall said.

“Who killed Rhea Grenn?” Elise asked.

“I don’t care who did the deed. I want to know who took her powers.”

“Powers?” Elise couldn’t help but smile. It held her back from laughing.

“Fine.” Squall said, “Quistis, get the secretary. As for the soldier...”

“Easy.” Quistis said, “I can get a guard from downstairs. They count.”

Quistis turned on her heels.

“And what is she doing?” Elise asked.

“You’re being impeached.” Squall said.

Quistis took two steps before Elise spoke again.

“Fine. I’ll tell you.” She said with a sigh, “_I_ took Rhea’s powers.”

Quistis turned back around, and heard the sentence go off like a bomb. The Fated Children could only stare at the Estharian president as their jaws hit the floor.

Elise nodded. “I took Rhea Grenn’s powers. At this point in time, I am the sorceress.”

“Lady,” Seifer said with a frustrated chuckle, “, you have no idea who you’re fucking with here. I mean, you’ve been trouble from day one but I didn’t think you were such a fucking idiot.”

“Seifer.” Quistis warned.

“No.” Selphie said, “Let him speak.”

“Why?” Squall asked Elise, “Just tell me that. Tell me why I shouldn’t kill you where you stand.”

“Because of you.” Elise replied. She took a moment to let it sink in. “Just now, you marched into my office and told me I was being impeached. You are impeaching the president of a sovereign nation. It's because Laguna Loire gave you too many concessions, too many privileges... and Galbadia followed suit, still ashamed of the mere _memory_ of Rinoa; they flock to you like you weren’t the ones who put her up there in the first place! Just the Tripartite Treaties alone give you enough control over every corner of the world. Hell, to impeach me, you’d need a supreme judge. Estharian law says, a supreme judge must be Esthar-born. But she,” Elise pointed at Quistis, “, is one. On _both_ continents. I need your permission to access research undertaken by one of our own scientists! Yes, he was a traitor, and a loathsome excuse for a human being, but it is _Esthar’s by right! _And I understand why those mechanisms in place, believe me - but the Edea Sanction? The blank check to canvas, abduct, kill or Hyne knows what to anyone you please, with no consequences? No.” Elise shook her head, “No, that’s too much power. That’s too much power in too few hands.”

“Oh bull_shit!”_ Seifer countered.

“Sorry.” Selphie stepped forward, “But before anyone else says anything else, I wanna know: how is this plan of yours supposed to work? I mean, all I gotta do is to make a phone call, tell a reporter you’re a sorceress, and you’re ousted. Won’t last the day.”

Elise couldn’t help but smile widely. “In that same call, I’ll reveal the existence of the Edea Sanction to the public. It’s a Presidential-level secret, as you know, kept from even the state officials themselves.”

“It’s a state secret on both continents.” Squall said, “We know. We are the ones who made it so.”

“So imagine, for a moment, that I let it slip, along with the list of names of people who have been canvassed. What little credibility you have left after publically hanging a bunch of orphans will be destroyed. Hell, I’ll even reveal myself as the new sorceress. Everybody loves a power-hungry conspiracy.”

Squall clenched his teeth. His hands were itching to reach for her throat, and to squeeze and squeeze and squeeze until he heard her neck snapping. She could writhe in the abject agony of undeath forever for all he cared after that. But one thing he had to admit was what came out of his mouth:

“You’re good.” He said.

“Excuse me?”

Quistis sighed. “Don’t insult me.” she said, “I explained to you that the Sanction was made to ensure we wouldn’t get caught up in politics. You’re now ensuring that we _do_.”

Elise nodded. "If that's what it takes to take you down a notch."

“So what do you want?” Squall asked, “I assume you didn’t do all this just to prove a point.”

“The Deep Sea Research Center and all the research contained therein.”

“What else?” Selphie asked.

“I want you to back off.” Elise said, “You’ve been on me since the day I was sworn in, and I’m sick of it. The rest, I’ll bring up a week and a half from now.”

“You piece of-“ Seifer began, but Selphie put a hand on his chest and stopped him short.

“Fine.” Quistis said, “I’ll see you then.”

Elise nodded.

Seifer, snarling through clenched teeth, turned away. Quistis and Squall followed suit. Selphie stood her ground. When Squall gave her a look over his shoulder, she cocked her head towards the door, mouthing _I’ll catch up_. He took his cue and got out.

Quistis stopped at the threshold as the others headed for the elevator.

“And by the way...” she said over her shoulder, “...you just cost two Estharians their lives.”

“Excuse me!?” Elise said.

“I have only two Estharians in my intelligence cadre. They were both on successive shifts the past two days. If either held back anything, and I suspect that they both did, that is high treason. The only punishment for that is death. Good night, Madame President. Enjoy your victory.”


	10. The End of Peace

**9 DAYS AFTER ELISE’S SUCCESSION**

**(The round table. A duel.)**

* * *

Brea felt comfortable being atop the rebuilt Monument of Triumph. Wrapped in her coat, shrouded in shadows and seeing the world through the scope of a sniper rifle, she knew that she was concealed from those below, but still there. The spotlights illuminating the ornate carvings running through the stone structure draped its top in darkness. The rifle itself was covered with black, non reflective composite paint, making her a shadow in the dark.

The crosshair moved through the crowd, zig-zagging through dignitaries, state officials and soldiers alike. Brea didn’t like that the ceremonial aspect of the procedure always took place in open spaces; and always on the continent that had already signed. This meant quite a few soldiers from Esthar in this case, encased in their combat armor; a parade of blues, turquoise and purples.

The staging ground was a classical set-up: right between the two monuments adorning the city’s entrance, there was a slightly elevated dais, atop which a round table was placed. The white tablecloth draped over it emphasized the golden name plaques encircling it. The cameras of news outlets that were roaming the crowd now would be turned upon it when the actual ceremony would begin. For now, everyone else was scattered all around the available space; some enjoying food and drinks passed around by waiters and waitresses clad in black, others holding small talk.

Brea’s crosshair was trained squarely on Squall. Standing there in his ceremonial uniform, clad in pure white and with Selphie’s arm coiled around his, surveying the scene. She shifted her focus slightly and found Quistis, presently in one of her hushed arguments with Seifer.

Brea expected a buzzing in her ear the second Quistis’ hand went to her ear.

_“Do you have Elise?”_

“Your six, other side of the staging ground.”

_“Keep an eye on her. Did you bring something?”_

“I have two diluted Odineum shots just in case, sir.”

_“Good. Quistis out.”_

* * *

Selphie liked this aspect of their work and knew that Squall didn’t. Then again, having to put up with a bunch of strangers and making small talk wasn’t his thing. Neither was it hers, but she enjoyed the feeling of being grounded, standing among others that...

Oh, who was she kidding? The reverences, the sickly-sweet pang of respect, the pleasantries... it was all wonderfully bitter, like the disappointing aftertaste of a perfect moment.

Squall tensed up under her touch.

“Oh, relax.” She said, “She’s not gonna try anything here.”

Squall didn’t respond. Selphie rolled her eyes. Typical.

“No. It’s not going to be Rinoa all over again.” She said, “Not this time.”

“It’s not that.” he said.

“Oh, this is gonna be good.”

“With my father gone, I... I don’t know. He was born a Delingite, but I was born in Winhill. I don’t know what that makes me.”

“A handsome rogue with no home?”

“...but after the war, he made Esthar his home. Almost as if he were Estharian himself.”

“I get it.” Selphie said, caressing his wrist, “Wow. I think I should get an award or something for this, because I know what’s on your mind.”

Squall looked at her and saw her smile, her eyes bright. How long had it been, he wondered, since that balcony? It seemed like somebody else's life now; long ago and far away.

“So, tell me.” he said, smiling, “What’s on my mind?”

“You thought Esthar as your home, because your father was there. Now Elise moved in. It bothers you that she’s there.”

“...among other things.”

“We’re gonna get to that part, believe you me. Nobody messes with Sir Laguna’s legacy. Nobody.”

“Okay, now I’m scared.”

“You better be, ‘cause as soon as this is over, I-“

_“Showtime.”_ Quistis’ voice buzzed in their ears.

Selphie looked around and saw Elise making her way through the crowd, shadowed closely by Mir. She set off a chain reaction. Anyone who was on the top tier abandoned whatever they were doing to follow suit.

* * *

_“We’re moving into position. Stay on us.”_ Quistis said.

Movement alerted Brea. She glanced up from the scope, to the other side of the square and to the top of the second monument. It was almost unnoticeable, barely a flicker, but Brea caught it: movement. She brought her rifle to bear and glimpsed through the scope.

Her eyes widened when her crosshair scanned a navy blue combat armor, noticeable due to its dark orange accents.

“Sir.” She said into the comm-link, “There’s a second sniper.”

Brea tried to see the other sniper’s rifle. From the looks of it, it was the same as her own – military issue, stealth model A16. Bolt-action, five-shot clip.

_“Repeat.”_ Quistis said.

“There is a second sniper on the Monument to Galbadia.”

_“Which side?”_

“Estharian. Stealth armor.”

_“...that wasn’t in their security inventory.”_

“Your orders?”

_“Stay on the sniper. If he puts his finger to the trigger, take him out.”_

“Sir, I can’t watch both you and him.”

_“We’ll be at the table. I’ll tell Squall to keep an eye out.”_

“Yes, sir.”

* * *

The Galbadian President, Jacen Onesson, cut an impressive figure as he moved through the crowd, flanked on his left by his Field Marshal. Broad-shouldered, tall and strong, clad in a navy blue, double-breasted suit, he walked unimpeded. His angular face was complimented by his whitening, slicked-back hair and he carried himself well. Brea couldn’t help but feel a bit relieved as he stepped onto the dais; especially given that it was his face that was directly in her line of sight. She didn’t think she wouldn’t be tempted not to load up one of her special bullets and pull it if it were Elise.

Jacen Onesson and his Field Marshal, Ira Raele, sat down; at the same time, with their backs turned to Brea, Mir and Elise took their seats, directly across the table from them. The head of the table, the seat to Brea’s left was reserved for Quistis. Squall would be sitting opposite from her. Selphie had the misfortune of sitting next to Elise, while Seifer took the seat next to Jacen.

Brea slid her finger into the trigger guard, but slackened it. She turned the scope to the second sniper, just for a second, just to be sure.

The other had done the same thing, she saw.

* * *

Quistis straightened her uniform as she stood up. She held the microphone assigned to her. She had memorized the little speech she would be expected to give, which was, she felt, more to the benefit of those assembled than anything else. But still. Ceremony was ceremony.

“Twenty-three years ago, Ocean Garden bound the two nations of Galbadia and Esthar together. The Tripartite Treaties ensured safety, security,” she ignored the snide smirk on Elise’s face, ”, and peace. It was written in the first document that one month after the President of either nation is changed by popular election, the said Presidents must meet with their counterparts, on their soil, to renew the agreements. This will have been fifth time such an event has taken place: a testament to the strength of the treaties themselves.”

On cue, soldiers of both nations stepped forward and placed the lengthy documents in front of each president, as well as Squall and Quistis.

“Once the presidents and the Ocean Garden Grand Master lends us their pens, I will officiate the renewal; and may we do so again.”

The passing of pens followed. Squall signed his copy without missing a beat. Selphie shot him a glare, urging him to play nice. However, Jacen also signed, knowing that his signature here was a formality. Thunderous applause followed.

Quistis glanced at Elise, whose pen was hovering above the page. Quistis clenched her teeth.

_Don’t make a fucking spectacle of this – you won’t help yourself by throwing a tantrum here..._

Elise straightened her back, flexing her chest, as if to try and make herself look bigger to match Jacen’s posture.

* * *

Brea’s first instinct was to turn her rifle towards the second sniper; her trigger finger flexed and curled around the trigger instantly. Through the scope and in the crosshair, Brea saw the second sniper’s trigger finger curl around the curve of the trigger.

One finger clicked on her comm-link.

“_Secure Elise!_”

Brea aimed at his head and pulled, and as the compressed air inside the barrel released, the gunshot exploded in the night – but her ears, honed after years of combat, heard the impossible: two gunshots echoing as one, in perfect sync. Her shot found purchase, she saw the sniper’s body shake and go limp. The rifle was left to dangle from his finger, which was stuck between the back of the trigger and the stock of the rifle.

Brea pocketed the Odenium bullets, stood up and turned her scope to the panic below.

* * *

_“Secure Elise!”_

Selphie didn’t think, she acted. She pulled her legs out from under the table and gave Elise a solid kick on the side with both feet. Elise shifted, and not a second later, a gunshot boomed above them; and Selphie felt Elise’s chair shake as the high-caliber bullet tore right through it. Selphie felt the projectile’s passing on her leg.

That was all it took for the thick crowd encircling the dais to melt into a shrieking mess of mass panic.

Squall and Seifer stood up at the same time. Seifer grabbed hold of Jacen and Ira’s collars and dragged them to their feet. Selphie grabbed Elise by the arm and helped her up, ignored her cursing, and Squall stepped onto the table to get a better view.

Around them, the esteemed guests that until just a minute ago were simply content to be part of the occasion were scattering like bugs; a swarm of evening wear darting in every direction, through and around the soldiers trying to be heard, by each other as well as by them.

Quistis had one hand on her comm-link.

“Brea, report! What’s the status of the shooter!?

_“Dead, sir! I’m scanning the crowd to see if there’s-“_

Quistis saw the muzzle flash from atop the Monument to Galbadia. A third shot went off, this time from Brea’s side.

Squall looked to his left to see Selphie and Mir take Elise by both arms and start shoving and elbowing their way through the crowd. To his right, Seifer was being chided by Jacen and Ira. Right in front of her, Quistis was shouting into her comm-link.

Squall saw the cameras turning to him out of the corner of his eye. He clicked his comm-link and skipped through the channels.

“Squad Theta, come in!”

_“We see it, sir!”_

Another shot from the second sniper. Squall saw Quistis flinch.

_“We’re just about t-“_

The second sniper’s fifth shot took down the other end of the line.

* * *

The bullet tore through Brea’s shoulder and the exit wound exploded with pain; Brea felt as if she had been hit in the chest by a speeding truck, stumbled, but managed to keep from the edge. Her supporting arm slackened immediately, and as Brea dropped on one knee, she felt the natural reflex to support to heavy rifle with one hand bend her wrist downwards.

The barrel hit the stone surface with a loud clack. Teeth clenched, vision swimming between blurry and clear, Brea looked on ahead to see her opponent in this duel eject a clip from his rifle. She knew she had one bullet in the chamber, the last in her first clip, but with one arm out of commission and the pain insistently clawing at her senses, she couldn’t shoot in that position.

Brea dropped to both knees and then kicked her legs back. Her shoulder flared up, the wound protesting and bleeding profusely, but she clenched her teeth and allowed a scream as she brought her rifle to bear, balancing it on its legs and pressed her cheek onto the stock.

The crosshairs found the cyborg as it inserted the clip. Brea strained to focus, tried to drown out her body screaming at her to stop. Her finger found the trigger.

Brea aimed a little lower than she would, at the cyborg’s throat. With the state that she was in, the kickback could fuck up the shot, she knew, and if she missed, there would be nothing to protect her.

_Focus, you piece of shit, _Brea shouted at herself, _breathe in... breathe out... forget the wound, and breathe!_

The cyborg racked the bolt back and drove a bullet into the rifle.

_Breathe in..._

The cyborg took aim.

Brea fired. The stock rammed into her good shoulder as the whole rifle shook. Through the scope, she saw the bullet tear right through the cyborg’s jaw, burrowing its way through his skull and finally, exiting the back of its head with a dark spray of blood and armor.

The cyborg’s rifle went off as it went down.

Brea squeezed her eyes shut and waited for the inevitable. She felt the bullet as it dove into her hair, harmlessly plucking a few strands and burning the shallowest of trails across her scalp before disappearing harmlessly.

* * *

Elise’s hovercraft was landed near the square, to an impromptu parking lot arranged on both sides of what had come to be known as the Leonhart Avenue. Selphie let Mir lead them to the hovercraft and gently let go of Elise as Mir knocked on the windshield to wake the pilot up.

Selphie clicked her comm-link.

“Squall, report.”

_“I’m with Squad Theta. Oli is down. There’s a torrent of guests coming your way, I suggest you get out, and get back here.”_

“Be right there.”

The hovercraft’s hatch opened with a hiss and the groaning of hydraulics. Mir practically shoved Elise in. Before Selphie could get a word in, he followed suit and the hatch closed.

Selphie sighed, turned and ran towards the torrent of guests pouring into the avenue, desperate to reach their cars.

* * *

Quistis held Oli’s head, her hand on his neck, as the blood spread on the pavement below, clinging to the knees of her white uniform. Squad Theta had already scattered in a mad rush to get to the top, to scale the Monument to Galbadia to find the culprit. His body was shaking, twitching, trying to remain. His fingers had slipped in between the buttons of her jacket, and he was holding on for dear life... all in vain. The Curaga spells Quistis had weren’t doing anything – they were field dressing, unable to stop actual internal devastation.

As Oli choked and gurgled in the blood that was filling up his lungs, Quistis felt helpless... absolutely helpless to do anything.

“It’s okay...” she kept telling him, “...it’ll all be okay.”

Squall, standing a few steps away, cold and lonely, knew that she was lying.

* * *

Brea opened her eyes to the blind panic of knowing she had just passed out. She blinked rapidly, her heart pounding in her temples. She couldn’t hold back a moan from escaping her lips as the wound made itself known – her every movement dragged along the fibers of her clothes, eager to stick into the hole.

Brea pulled the rifle closer and peered through the scope. The second sniper was dead. She saw the first shot she had landed; it had broken through the exterior, but had been stopped by the metal interior of the helmet. She sighed, relieved. She twisted her arm around, right hand reaching for her left ear, and to the comm-link.

“This is Brea.” She managed, “Come in.”

_“Brea?” _Squall’s voice buzzed in, _“Sitrep. Now.”_

“The sniper’s down, I...” she managed to get on all fours, with her left arm still slack, burning up with agony with every movement, “...I’ll be down, just...” she clenched her teeth. This wasn’t going to be pretty. With some difficulty, she managed to push the ground and stand up. She opened her legs wide to balance herself, and stood, wobbling slightly, “...what happened down there?”

_“The end of peace. You said the sniper was Estharian, didn’t you?”_

Brea bent over, sweating profusely, and picked her rifle up by the barrel. She began walking to the hatch, trying to swallow down the bad taste in her mouth.

“Yes. The body is still up there, if we can find out who was in-“

A sound alerted her: it resembled a set of firecrackers going off, muffled by something. She saw the small flares erupting from within the sniper’s body, shaking it. It only lasted for a few seconds. When it stopped, all that was left was smoke pouring out of every available opening.

“_What the fuck was-“_

* * *

Seifer was one step away from crossing the Monument of Triumph when the door to his side was kicked open and Brea came stumbling out. Seifer saw the bullet hole first, Brea’s pale complexion and sweat-drenched hair second. He went to her side and took the rifle from her hands. He offered his arm, and she took it, muttering a word or two of gratitude. Seifer wished, as he often had, that she would just drop the “sir” already – it felt like helping his little sister walk, to him.

The scene they returned to was the calm after the storm: two hovercrafts, the one they had used and Squad Theta’s own were there, and the SeeDs were in the process of loading a body bag onto it. Quistis, the knees and sleeves of her uniform stained with red, was watching them, arms crossed, her cane hanging from one of them. Squall, with his hands in his pants’ pockets, was waiting for Quistis by the hatch of the other hovercraft. Selphie, it seemed, was already inside.

Upon seeing them, Selphie rushed to their side.

“Brea!”

She took the rifle, and Brea’s arm from Seifer, who went to Quistis.

“I’m fine, sir.” Brea managed, feeling Selphie’s eyes on her, “He didn’t hit anything vital.”

“You’re not fine, you’re bleeding! Come here. Sit down.”

Selphie sat Brea down on the single step embedded into the hovercraft’s hatch, careful to keep the hem of her coat up as she did. Selphie then peeled off her coat and jacket. Her slender fingers gently touched the outer rim of the entry wound, eliciting a clenched-teeth hiss from Brea.

_“Curaga.”_ Selphie said. The bright blue glow that emanated from her hands eased the pain a little, stemmed the bleeding somewhat. But already she could see torn sinews pulling at others, the wound aching to reform. It’d hold, but only for a while. Brea dug into her coat pocket and pulled out her pack. She saw that it was partially crushed in the scuffle, but there was one good cigarette left.

* * *

The hovercraft carrying Squad Theta took flight, its engines whirring up as it rose. Seifer crouched next to the dead cyborg’s body. It was lying on its stomach, limbs stretched out, exactly as Squad Theta had left it.

There was a separate plate sticking out, by maybe half an inch, from the back of the armor. Etched into it, painted dark orange like the rest of the accents was:

**FC102034**

**43/50**

“Hey!” he called out for the rest, “What do you think this means?”

Squall and Quistis came over and stood on either side of him. Selphie just took a look from where she was trying to tie the pilot’s tie around Brea’s wound.

Squall clacked his tongue, “Serial number, number of the soldier from last name in descending order, number of total soldiers in squad.”

“I _know_ that already.” Seifer replied, “But something’s off. The fifty strong part, especially. When did they make half-batallions?”

“The serial number is also wrong.” Quistis said, leaning forward, “The number of digits is right, but there shouldn’t be any letters. Not even black ops armor has them.”

“Get the plate.” Squall said, “I’ll have Darina look at it.”

Seifer raised an eyebrow, “Darina? The library girl? This time of night?”

“She works the night shift. And likes puzzles. She had found the Leonhart Archive on her own.”

“Guys!” Selphie called out, “Don’t wanna break up the contemplation party, but we gotta get Brea to the Infirmary.”

“It’s okay, sir, really...” Brea managed, smoking her second cigarette.

“No.” Selphie told her, “It’s not. It’s bad enough that you took a bullet for _her_. I’m not gonna watch you grit your teeth and play the good soldier. Finish smoking that shit, and let’s go. Understood?”

Brea looked at her and saw nothing but pleading resolve in her eyes.

“Yes, sir.” She said.


	11. Imperium Eden

**2 DAYS AFTER THE SNIPER DUEL**

**(A Guardian Force. Those Handsome Balamb Boys.)**

* * *

Selphie finished up lacing her sneakers and brought her foot down to see if the laces were tight enough. A little ways from her, standing in front of the full-body mirror that was their closet door, Squall was buttoning up his jacket. Selphie thought white rather suited him, even though she knew it scared the cadets shitless. The scar, some of the smaller scars on his otherwise smooth face, the nearly-shaven head... plus his reputation for being a cold, calculating fucking psychopath.

Selphie knew that over the years, she had gained a reputation for being an unstable train wreck. Quistis was a goddess to be worshipped to the Trepies, but a frigid bitch with a chip on her shoulder in the form of the cane she still carried. Seifer was a wannabe Squall who was never as good.

_First we were friends, then we were peers, then they turned into teens we hanged, and now they’re children who hate their surrogate parents._

One hand instinctively went to her stomach. Beneath her palm, beneath the fabric, skin, muscle and sinew, there was a little void. The downside of being a mage, a kink in the emulation of black magic that Odine hadn’t quite worked out.

_But if this isn’t family, I don’t know what is. Not that I’d know. I helped kill my mother, after all._

Squall felt two arms sliding across his chest as Selphie held him from behind.

“Where’re you off to?” she asked.

“Topside. I don’t want to leave Brea alone with the endless string of calls from suits for too long, especially since Esthar is too scared to talk to us. It’s bad enough she took a bullet for Elise fucking Galloway.”

“Y’know... sometimes I wonder if she woulda been better off if she didn’t follow us around.”

“She made her choice. So did we.”

Selphie sighed. “Maybe.” She said, “But why don’t you stick around?”

“Where are you off to?”

“The mat. I figured that beating the shit out of a helpless, defenseless sandbag was the thing to do this evening.”

Squall smiled. “I’ll keep it short. Anything non-apocalyptic is a waste of time at this point anyway.”

“We do non-apocalyptic now?” Selphie asked, grinning, “You sure you’re not just getting tired in your old age?”

“I am not that old.”

“Says you.”

“I think I’d feel it.”

“I’m gonna need some proof, mister.”

“Oh?” Squall couldn’t keep a smile from emerging, “What kind of proof?”

“We’ll discuss the terms when you get back. Just let me get acquainted with the sandbag first. I don’t want to end up punching you like last time.”

“Better not.” Squall turned around to face her, “You pack quite a punch.”

“Aren’t you glad you had us trained in martial arts too?” Selphie said with a giggle. She rose to the tips of her toes and kissed him, one hand slipping under his collar to hold him close.

When she broke it, she came back down and saw him smile. She thought that he looked tired.

“You better go, darling.” She said, tapping a rhythm on his chest, “Before I change my mind and decide to chain you somewhere.”

“I’m not doing that a second time.”

“Promises, promises.”

Squall laughed. He kissed Sephie one more time, and headed for the elevator.

* * *

The hovercraft squadron circled around Ocean Garden, much like sharks, right at the edge of the Garden’s sensory range. They maintained a safe distance to avoid the defensive batteries protruding from seemingly random spots on the floating fortress, but followed it still, a hair’s breadth away from making a sea of blips in the radar. With every cycle, the attack craft rotated and adjusted ever-so-slightly, beginning to strafe, getting ready.

There was another squadron of hovercraft, unarmed APCs, waiting well outside sensor range, patiently hovering in place, waiting for the defenses to fall first. They were in two groups: one for the charge, one for the cavalry.

Ocean Garden, unawares, floated in the night, its engines humming.

* * *

“There is still time.” Mir said, “You can back off. Nobody will blame you if you do.”

Elise barely heard him. Her eyes were on the luminous, neon display of the tactical map and she was watching the attack craft turning their weapons towards the Garden.

“And let them try again?” Elise asked, "Be beholden to them?"

“Elise...” Mir shook his head, “If they wanted you dead, they would be. Trust me. Isn’t that why I’m still here, three years past retirement age? Because I worked with them?”

Elise gave him a frustrated glare.

“Well,” Mir went on, “I did work with the Fated Children. I know how they operate. I don’t even have to tell you this, either – just look at the Third Sorceress War. If they wanted to kill you, you would be dead. That sniper...”

“Brea Willings.”

“Whoever it was, it was to send a message. So you can back off.”

“And do what they want? That’s your advice?”

“No. That’s my recommendation. Because... once you do this, there is no going back.”

“I didn’t get this far along just to turn around and run.” Elise said, “I only hope we brought enough – I want the Garden itself in one piece, after all.” She picked up the hand-held comm-unit and turned it on. “All units. This is the Commander-in-Chief. Operation: Leonhart is go. Hyne be with you all.”

Confirmations poured out of the speakers. On the tactical map, the blips that were the hovercraft began to close in.

* * *

The first five defense batteries didn’t even see it coming when showers of high-velocity, explosive-tip shells tore them apart right at the roots. Before shock could set in and pass, the attack crafts split up and soried around the Garden, taking down defense batteries one by one. As their muzzles broke off and fell down into the water, the APC Squadron moved forward and upwards, aiming for the only open space in the Garden: the ceiling of Ground Level. The explosions had been heard, and as blind confusion and panic began to spread throughout the Ground Level, the APC’s got into position: hovering in a circle, a malovalent halo above the heads of the cadets and SeeDs below. Their spotlights scanned the ground as their bottom hatches opened, releasing their payload: Estharian soldiers, armed and ready to attack.

Squall had barely stepped out of the elevator to the Master’s level when the first shots were fired.

* * *

The cyborg had spent the better part of the past two hours navigating the ventilation shafts and maintenance corridors. The layout was in its head, almost hard-wired, and he saw his own progress as a blue dot crawling through a map, getting closer to its target.

Finally, dead ahead, one of the many grills that fed the enclosed Master’s Level with air. The cyborg reached forward. His fingers slid in through the openings, and without much effort, he tore the grill loose. He pushed himself through, gracefully flipped and landed on his feet.

He stood up straight and scanned the Master’s Level for his target. The entire floor was one big complex built for the comfort of the Garden Masters and the assassin was currently on the West side of it – standing next to the thin but lengthy home of Quistis Trepe and Seifer Almasy. The layout was simple: there was an elevator to the assassin’s right, leading up to the Ground Level. The ground was like a vale, with their homes on both sides, standing atop elevated grounds accessible by stone steps. Fake grass and trees decorated the gardens of the suites.

To the left, directly ahead from the elevator was a large, rectangular area fitted with various training devices, targets, weapons racks and fitness equipment. Presently, clad in black slacks, a white t-shirt and white sneakers, ears obstructed by earbuds, Selphie Tilmitt was there, working on the sandbag.

He sent a message to his base: _target confirmed._

The cyborg dug into his pocket and retrieved an EMP projectile. It was a circular object that, when he activated it, sprouted blades on either side. Made of steel, good conductors. He rewound the blow and threw it. The device found its mark and got embedded into the elevator’s keypad. A second later and it lit up, sending out bright blue sparks as it fried the keypad’s circuitry, trapping him in. Trapping her in.

The cyborg went to the edge of the elevation and executed a double flip. He landed with very little sound, nothing that the target would have heard. He positioned himself, estimating a good point of approach.

The first explosions rumbled then, and even if the target hadn’t heard them, the cyborg knew she felt them. She removed her gloves, leaving her hands wrapped in gauze, and took off her earbuds.

The assassin sprung into action. He sprinted forward, tearing down the walkway leading to the exercise area, head down and powerful legs propelling it forward.

_“Thundaga!”_

The chain lightning came out of nowhere and struck the assassin squarely in the chest. He stumbled, rolled and fell down, electricity rushing through him.

* * *

“Quistis, get the fuck down here!” Squall shouted into his comm-link as the soldiers landed. The martial artists of the crowd made themselves known, stepping up to face an armed enemy without any weapon but themselves. As Squall began to move forward, he saw two soldiers take on one cadet and cut him down. Growling, Squall charged them both and rammed his shoulder into the chest of one. He swung a kick and broke the ribs of the other with his heel. Both feet on the ground, he snatched the gunaxe from the soldier’s hands and rammed the curve of its cutting edge into his throat. The soldier shook, twitching like a puppet with his strings cut. Squall withdrew the blade and paid his partner, who was trying to catch his breath, the same courtesy, spilling first blood.

All around him was the cacophony of gunshots, the sizzling, otherworldly sounds of para-magic and the screaming... the screaming...

Squall went to work. He came at the Estharians like a hurricane, snatching a second gunaxe in no time and appearing to most as a swirl of blades. He cut a swath through them, stepping over the mangled corpses of cadets and SeeDs alike, aided every so often by a mage whom had managed to hide particularly well.

The sudden, glaring spotlights turning to him blinded him for a moment. His opponent swung and cut his hand open, causing him to release one of his weapons. Squall leapt back to put some distance between him and the soldier and snuck a peek.

He saw APCs overhead... new APCs with their bottom hatches open, regurgitating more soldiers who came down with a hail of bullets.

* * *

Selphie glanced at the cyborg. It was still recovering, its limbs were twitching as it struggled to get to its feet. She ran, dashing towards the elevator. She leapt up to the second tier, into the garden of her home. She heard the artificial forget-me-nots crunch under her sneakers. She was faster than the cyborg could follow, and in five seconds, she was at the door of their suite. She kicked the door open, and dropped to her knees by the bed. She reached in and pulled out her weapons case.

The weapon was a specially crafted Crescent Wish variant, featuring a longer chain, slightly shorter handles, and two double-sided blades as the tips. Diluted Odineum mixed with adamantine. Sturdy, but not indestructible.

The cyborg, now back to a 100% capacity, reached behind him and unsheathed his sword. He turned in time to see Selphie spinning towards him. The Crescent Wish came out of nowhere and the cyborg parried by spinning around, his sword held at chest level. Selphie came to a halt and the cyborg followed suit.

They stood for a few moments, both waiting for the other one to make a move. Above them, the battle was spreading throughout Ground Level as more and more cadets rushed out into the fray.

“You’re fucking with the wrong girl here, asshole.” Selphie said to the cyborg, “This is my home. You’re not welcome.”

The cyborg didn’t respond.

Selphie swung. The weapon traced a graceful arc that the cyborg leaned back to avoid. Selphie spun, using the momentum to strike again. The cybrog blocked. Selphie pulled the second handle back as the cyborg moved forward, slashing at her. Selphie grabbed both handles just in time and blocked with both. The cyborg rewound, which Selphie used to throw a kick.

The sword came from below, cutting vertically, and Selphie stepped back to avoid – but not before the blade cut clean through the chain. The spare links scattered at her feet, and Selphie felt a shiver run down her spine.

_No matter. I know how to dual-wield, fucko._

Selphie flipped both handles and adjusted her stance to accommodate having two weapons instead of one. The cyborg charged just as Selphie stepped forward to intercept before it could make a move.

* * *

“All Trepies! This is Master Trepe – we are under attack, repeat: we are under attack! Get your weapons and get out onto Ground Level main, _now!”_

For the first time in her life, Brea hated her pistol. With one arm in a sling, the wound still stinging at random moments, it was difficult to pull off what she did on a normal day; add to that the fact that they were stuck in the administrative level, and she was leaning out of an open window, she hadn’t taken a single shot. She was back in Trabia, learning the fundamentals of sharpshooting... she felt fear, cold as ice, running through her veins.

The barrel of her pistol was shaking.

“All cadets and SeeDs, this is Master Trepe! We are under attack, I repeat: the Garden is under attack!”

Spotlights flooded their view. Brea looked up to see more APCs, their hatches open, raining down reinforcements. With a snarl, she took aim at those descending and began to shoot wildly.

She missed.

She missed again.

Again and again again.

Brea didn’t know that she was screaming until she heard it, one bullet from the clip running out. That one found purchase, got one right in the neck, and sent him spinning down, into the carnage below.

She holstered her pistol and pulled the other one.

_Come on! While you can still do some good, shoot, you good-for-nothing-fucking-piece-of-_

“Squall!” she heard Quistis shout into her com-link, “We’re stuck in the Administrative Level, we can’t get down, I have no Floats!”

_He won’t hear you, _Brea thought as she took aim, _He’s probably in it._

Her comm-link, tuned to Squall’s frequency, buzzed to life. She heard his voice come through... the voice that she remembered hearing only once before: standing in the demolished Deling Square, the final push towards the Mansion. It had been just him and her, side-by-side.

Squall said one word:

_“Eden.”_

* * *

Selphie came at her enemy like a whirlwind, relentless and mobile; constantly stepping and spinning and shifting. Her every move flowed into the next one in an unending combo, causing her to leap and somersault through the moves, dancing around the cyborg who just kept shifting, blocking and parrying every strike. They danced like a couple, to the sounds of metal clashing with metal echoing in the open space of the Master’s Level. Selphie kept ramping up the strength she put behind her blows, narrowing her focus. The cyborg accommodated perfectly, matching its steps to hers as she moved, each step calculated.

_Now._

Selphie brought the bars together in an X and locked the cyborg’s blade. As she had predicted, the cyborg attempted to slide the blade down, using the blade’s curvature to get out of the lock. Selphie pulled both handles back and delivered a sturdy kick to his chest. The cyborg stumbled, a moment Selphie used to swing with her left, coming at him from below.

She didn’t see the sword coming in until it was too late.

With a metallic clang, the blade sliced through several layers of skin on Selphie’s hand, and plucked her weapon from her grasp when the involuntary muscle spasm caused her grip to slacken. Selphie ignored the pain and mimicked the move, bringing her right to bear. The cyborg rose his sword, but she struck with such force that the blade snapped.

A split second after it did, he delivered a kick to her wrist. Her hand opened and before Selphie could grab the falling Crescent Wish handle with her bleeding hand, the cyborg threw another kick. The handle spun as it flew away from her and landed with a low thud, out of her reach.

Selphie didn’t wait. She put up her guard and threw a kick that the cyborg blocked. They locked in again, punching and kicking, blocking and parrying, giving and receiving. With each hit she took, Selphie felt the impact a bit more profoundly. She knew that she was at a disadvantage, being of a smaller build than her opponent; and the armor the damn thing was encased in was bruising her skin with every blow. Her knuckles were already skinned, sore and gently bleeding.

The cyborg threw a spinning kick that Selphie went under, and there she saw the opening. Turning, she clenched her right fist and extended it from her shoulder as she aimed for the cyborg’s jaw.

An armored fist slammed into her side before her arm was even fully extended. In a slow-motion moment, Selphie felt two ribs strain, crack and then snap completely as the fist continued to press on further. A third one flexed, strained and then snapped.

Selphie let out a choked grunt and a moment later, blood came bursting out of her mouth. Her hands slid down the dented, slick armor of her opponent, fingers finding nothing but smooth surfaces. The cyborg moved her slightly, and Selphie, trying to breathe, felt the next fist break her nose. She heard the sickening crack of it in her head and lost all sense of direction for a few seconds – enough for the cyborg to deliver a kick to her stomach cavity, pulling out the last bit of breath she had been holding onto.

Selphie’s feet slid on the ground as she tried to move forward. She fell down onto her knees. Blind from the pain, bloodied and aching all over, she found herself staring at the cyborg’s feet as he turned.

The assassin went to retrieve what was left of his weapon.

Selphie stared at her hands. Stained red, shaking. Weak.

_It’s not enough... _Selphie thought, _it’s just not enough... No matter what I give, it’ll never..._

The memory of a gunshot echoed in her head and she saw everything she knew and held dear changing forever.

* * *

The Guardian Force materialized below the APCs, half-illuminated by the sliding circles of spotlights. The abomination brought a sense of calm to the battlefield as there was not one in attendance whom did not stop to glare at the horror of it.

Quistis saw Griever underneath Eden, the lion’s body nothing but a mess of putrid flesh, half-eaten muscle and bone; it was hanging from the razor-sharp, stake-like shape of Eden’s body. Its six wings were just rags of membranes, jerking slightly with every twitch of the corpse. There were tubes coming out of Griever, snaking around the lower half of Eden and then feeding directly into various ports in the Guardian Force’s body. From these ports and other random spots sprouted mess of cables and wires, all hanging hollow from the hunched over form of Eden.

The body itself was a monstrous mass, a horrid mixture of flesh, metal and feathers melded together so perfectly that they seemed to give birth to each other, seamlessly flowing around the patchwork abomination. Its surface was marred by pustules, rusted spots, broken cartilage where the crooked, mis-shapen feathers bled out sickly fluids. It had insect wings sprouting from its back, right next to angel wings, white and black, all twitching, fluttering to keep the Guardian Force afloat.

Around Eden, hanging in the air, were luminous screens full of flashing nerves, each one glitching, their shapes shaking, morphing into other shapes and rippling.

Quistis tilted her head down just as she vomited onto her boots, coughing and spurting. Brea could feel her trigger finger itching, her pistol begging to be raised... to be aimed at the back of his neck, at the back of the Grand Master’s neck and to be fired... one shot and it would be over. One shot and this... _thing_ would disappear forever.

Down below, in the thick of it and in Squall’s head, Eden’s voice, soft-spoken but changing timbre, tone and pitch constantly, echoed.

**tHe HOst ReEqUEst?**

“Destroy.” Squall said.

**CoMpLinANCE iS pLeaSurE.**

The rune-screens around Eden multiplied, layered further, stretched out, shifted and re-arranged themselves, as if finding the points of a puzzle. As they went on, those below rubbed their eyes to find out if they were actually seeing what they thought they were.

A cadet screamed to confirm.

As they watched, the Estharian soldiers began to dissipate, little by little, as if they were statues made of sand and a breeze was chipping away at their structures... they began to lessen... to fade away... to disappear...

There was no sound. None of them screamed, none of them moved. It was as if they had become drawings of themselves, two-dimensional and immobile. And if any of them could look at their enemies sideways, they would see that they actually _had_.

Squall looked around him to see his cadets and SeeDs transfixed at the sight, none of them making a sound. A rapid, yet irregular sound of energy discharge began to echo.

In his head, Squall could hear Eden humming a melody too complex to exist.

**eFfIciENcy at 112.523478592489573453452472194798132749327489327435443893048031248023432322222222222222222222222222222222222222%**

The process continued, dissolving the Estharian forces, APCs and hovercrafts, leaving behind them only silence. With its task complete, Eden curled inward, stretching its body as it did so, and disappeared along with the last of them.

* * *

The cyborg retrieved the broken blade. It was a good break; what was left of it was still sharp enough to kill his target.

Selphie pushed the ground. Agony erupted in her torso, black spots danced in front of her eyes as she forced herself to breathe through her mouth.

_Fuck your pain, _she told herself_. Your pain means nothing. Put it in a box and make it go away._

She steadied herself as the cyborg turned.

_Your pain never meant anything. Look at you!_

Selphie took three leaps forward and jumped. The cyborg brought the sword to bear just in time. It sunk into her shoulder, to the hilt. Pain, sharp and cold, made her shiver, made her scream.

It didn’t stop her.

_It never meant anything to anyone! You just suffered! That’s right, you just suffered! You ached... and you bled... and what was it all for? What the fuck was it all even for!?_

In mid-air, Selphie brought her fist down onto the cyborg’s helmet. The impact snapped two of her fingers and caved the helmet in, if slightly.Selphie landed as the cyborg stumbled. She threw a kick that snapped her enemy’s right knee back, causing him to flail his arms, trying to adjust for the sudden shift in balance. Selphie promptly broke the other knee and before the cyborg could fall, she used her good hand to grab his helmet and slam her knee into it.

_Tell me, fucker: what was it all for?_

The cyborg fell onto its back. Selphie trapped the cyborg’s arms under her knees. She grabbed it by the throat. There was a mixture of flesh and metal underneath her fingers, and she knew that it did not breathe, not in any conventional sense, but it felt satisfying to hold him there.

She clenched her fist. Her middle and ring fingers protested.

“Gotcha!” She said to the cyborg. 

Selphie punched the helmet. Again. Again. Again. Her index finger broke and her pinky finger dislocated in its socket. She didn’t stop. Fuelled by the weight of years bearing down on her shoulders, half-blind from the pain, she kept hitting him. Again. Again. The sound of her fist striking composite armor felt like music to her ears. She was conducting a symphony, the only kind that she knew.

She heard her own voice, but didn’t know if it was her that was shouting.

“What was it for? What was it for!?” she chanted as she kept hitting. She couldn’t even feel her hand anymore, barely saw her skinned knuckles painting the rapidly collapsing helmet in red spurts, “What was it for!? _What the fuck was it all for, what!? **What!?** What!? Tell me, you fuck, tell me! Tell me!”_

One final punch and as she shattered her wrist, the cyborg gave a final, glorious twitch with its functional limbs. What was left of its head fizzled out and it laid there, lifeless.

* * *

Calm. Not a voice, not a movement, nothing but the wind caressing the corpses lying sprawled across the marble floors of the Ground Level. The cadets and SeeDs, wounded and well alike, were too petrified to move. In the absence of the enemy, the battle had come to an abrupt halt... but nothing else was important then, nothing but what they had just witnessed.

Squall felt tears streaming down his cheeks. Strange. He didn’t use to cry, he knew.

A buzz. Burst of static.

_“Squall...”_

“Ground Level secure.” He said.

_“What... what was that...”_ Squall heard her retch, “_...thing?”_

“Eden.”

_“What... happened to it?”_

“I’ve...” Squall wiped his tears with the sleeve of his jacket, “...had her junctioned ever since Deling.”

_“Her?”_

“Eden is female.” Squall said.

_“Fucking Hyne, Squall...”_

“We have... an understanding.” Squall said, “I gave her Griever. The way Griever was made and was taken from me created a bit of a paradox. Its corpse was still in the first memory it had been born in, but we had killed it years ago... so I gave her that contradiction. It was enough. She didn’t take any more memories. Or anything else.”

_“The Deep Sea Research Center.”_ Brea’s voice came through, _“That was what they were looking for – a weapon to use against you.”_

_“Where’s Selphie?”_ Quistis asked.

“She was...” Squall sighed, “...she was going to hit the sandbag. I doubt she even heard anything that just happened.”

* * *

Selphie took a few minutes to stand up. Her legs were shaky, her balance was pathetic at best, and she could feel the room spinning. But still, she stood, looking down at the broken body of her enemy.

“Heh.” Selphie spat blood. It tasted sweet, “I win.”

With a metallic clang, the cyborg’s armor bloomed like a flower – jagged pieces that formed its chest plate opened up outwards to reveal a spherical piece buried deep inside the body cavity. It was tied directly into the power cell, Selphie saw, and its smooth surface had only one irregularity: a blinking red eye.

Selphie’s eyes flew open and a memory draped itself over her mind, shutting off everything else.

* * *

_...she landed flat on her ass after running into what she guessed was a column or something. Trying to shake off the sudden rush of adrenaline, she thought about how it had been one mishap after another today. Oversleeping on account of that cursed snooze button on her alarm clock, not being tidy enough to find everything she needed to get before going out, forgetting the map she had been given on her desk... and now this._

_“...Are you okay?”_

_Selphie looked up and saw him._

_He was wearing a cadet’s uniform, same as her. His hair was one of the first things that struck her – wild, different. The second thing that she noticed was the scar running between his eyes. Still red around the edges – healed, and it had been good stitchwork, but it would remain there for the rest of his life, marring the flesh._

_His eyes, curious, concerned yet somehow dim, as if holding something back._

Well booyaka,_ she thought, _if all the Balamb boys are this handsome, I’m never gonna make SeeD.

_Selphie stood up as he watched. She dusted off her skirt, feeling self-conscious to have an audience for her klutz. She did what she always did, what always worked – she smiled and giggled. She stood up and dusted the rest of her uniform._

_“There. I’m fine. Sorry. I was kinda in a hurry.”_

_He didn’t say anything._

_“Oh yeah!” Selphie slapped her forehead, ”Did you just come from that class? Is... homeroom over?”_

_He didn’t respond at first. During the three whole seconds it took for him to nod, Selphie watched him stand, awkward and unsure how to react, and thought that maybe she wasn’t the only one feeling out of place._

_“Oh noo...” Selphie pouted, “This place is sooo much bigger than my last Garden!” _

_She was acutely aware of how loud her voice was. He looked all tongue-tied. _

I’ll speak for the both of us, then.

_“Oh, hey, hey.”_

What’s your name?

_“I just transferred here. Do you think you could give me a quick tour of this Garden?”_

_The urge to bite down on her lip was strong enough to level Trabia Garden itself, but she fought it. Who was she kidding? He wouldn’t take the time. Just the sight of him told her that he was one of those hardcore types she kept hearing about. All work and no play, hell-bent on making SeeD and then adding as many digits to their kill-count as possible before dying in some Centra culling... a freak accident with a Tonberry. That’d be him._

_His soft features, his brilliant eyes, they’d all come in handy in some undercover mission some day. _ _But today, he would say no. He would leave her to her own devices and forget about her two seconds later._

_He would think about battle plans instead. Figure out new ways to die._

_He would say no._

_He would..._

_But he said:_

_“Sure.”_

* * *

The memory burned like a photograph, from the edges inward, fraying as it went, racing through more than twenty years after that encounter... Dollet, the train, almost losing him, the war, Zell, hearing him tell her that everything was taken care of, losing him to Rinoa, the war again, and the other war, and the one after that – combat and corpses and Trabia and graves and wounds and scars and bleeding out in the bathroom and suicide and close calls... the tapestry of her life unraveled and Selphie saw with perfect clarity the life she had led. Brutal, long, filled to the brim with violence and bloodshed and sleepless nights, all that she tried to bury under a smile and a song... all filled to the brim with him. The awkward and unusual him, the broken him; him and the rest of her pathetic, orphaned existence.

She turned her head to face one of the security cameras that she knew was there. The cyborg was bleeping, faster and faster. She looked directly into the lens. A few seconds left to tell him everything she had ever wanted to tell him, to let him know everything.

"I'm sorry." she said.

Her final thought exploded in her mind a split second before the high-yield explosive encased in the cyborg’s body did.

_...it's just not enough._


	12. Epicentrum

**(Ashes. Darina likes puzzles.)**

* * *

Squall wedged the blade of a gunaxe between the elevator doors and pushed to pry the doors open. He couldn’t just break the glass, as that still left the second layer of the inner door intact. All he needed was a gap two inches wide, and the mechanism governing the function would let the doors open.

_“Open, you fuck!”_

In full view of the injured and shocked audience cluttering the Ground Level, he shifted his posture and started to pull instead of push. The change in his angle started to work and the doors started to separate from one another, forming a thin but growing slit. The blade bent slightly as Squall let out a clenched-teeth snarl, his eyes seemingly only the distance between the doors growing... slowly...

In his mind, there was nothing between here and now, and where he wanted to be. The particulars of getting down to the Master’s Level through the elevator shaft were in the back rows of his awareness, mere formalities now, obstacles standing between him and where she was.

The elevator doors relented with a loud clack and a metallic groan, and Squall squeezed in through them. The touchpad was dead, but the button that released the lock on the floor hatch was part of an older system, much like the doors. He practically punched it. The hatch released a square piece of the carpet under his boots.

His heart in his throat, Squall crouched. He pulled the hatch open and peered through it. The ladder embedded into the wall was going down, four levels. Squall tried to focus, to stifle the chaos filling his mind; the line between his memories and the scenarios running through his head were blurring, merging, becoming inseparable.

For a moment, he considered jumping. But the M-Level was two floors down, which meant that there was another floor before the bottom of the shaft, and a Float spell couldn’t make him fly.

He stepped on the ladder and began to climb down, his senses alert, trying to pick up anything at all from the air that could tell him how bad it was to erase how bad he thought it could be. He tried to pick up a sound, but there was nothing but the cavernous humming of the elevator shaft.

He could scarcely breathe. He couldn’t descend fast enough, every second spent was lending credence to visions of her, broken, dead because he wasn’t fast enough, because he wasn’t good enough...

_Keep it together, asshole. If she’s hurt, she’ll need you._

As he passed the Guardian Force Respository, he saw that the touchpad mounted to the inner wall had gone black as well.

_Circuit fryer, maybe?_

_But that means somebody wanted her down there._

_No. Somebody wanted us down there._

Squall quickened his descent, moving down with practiced ease that betrayed his mounting panic. When he managed to get to the M-Level, he stepped onto where the elevator’s doors would fit. There was a second set of doors, made of thick but not armored glass, protecting the entrance. Squall glanced at the access panel on his right. Fried, like the rest.

He then noticed a small line in the glass. His eyes followed it as the line got bigger, and was joined by other fault lines. A crack the size of his fist, on the left door panel; the right one had a few small ones instead.

_No..._

Squall swung a kick that shook the left door, but didn’t bring down the glass. He hit it again and heard it crunch, ready to give way. A third strike of his boot heel and the glass shattered, its shards rained down onto the frame’s base and they scattered at his feet. Squall stepped through.

_Please, no..._

His mind worked the scene with damning precision; and his training, his experience, everything he knew made him sick in that moment. Pieces of rocks under his feet, next to charred plastic plants, some torn from the roots. The steps he was climbing down now to get to the walkway damaged, as if something had cut a swath through it, right down the middle.

_Hyne, please, **no!**_

Dry air, as if the oxygen had fed something else. Scorch marks where the steps ended.

The visual proof that he would’ve given his soul not to have seen.

In his mind, Squall was screaming. His inner wail couldn’t drown out the monotonous, matter-of-fact voice in his head repeating one word: bomb. Bomb. Bomb. Bomb.

_This isn’t..._

Squall walked, getting closer, hearing his shuffling boots dragging on the ground as he did. His senses were at a standstill, drowned out under the white noise of his echoing thoughts.

_I can’t..._

Closer still, enough to see the damage wrought, to see the scorched ground, the small fires further ahead...

_You didn’t... you can’t..._

...debris in the form of broken chunks of the faux-stone. Pieces of glass crunching under his boots...

_You wouldn’t dare._

He hated that somewhere in the back rows of his consciousness, he could measure the distance, take in the details and extrapolate the size and volatility of the explosion, and so the center of it... which was six steps away. Five. Four.

Squall stopped.

_You wouldn’t dare! You wouldn’t dare to even think it! You wouldn’t dare to even begin putting it into thoughts – you wouldn’t dare to... you wouldn’t dare... you wouldn’t..._

A scream tore its way from his throat; a roar primal shook the ground underneath his feet. Reverberating with raw fury mingling with barely-repressed and unimaginable loss - a savage sound, unleashing the ravages of time, years upon years of nightmares that had now found flesh, had now become real. Fear had no place in what he was feeling in that moment, the inevitability of the loss and the simple gratitude he had felt every day for just one more day white-washed everything else and replaced it instead with the unrestrained fury of a man who was standing three steps away from his greatest fear.

His shaking fingers found the bead of his comm-link.

“_Squall, is Selphie alright? What happened?”_

“Everyone.” Squall snarled. His hands were shaking, “Bring everyone. Every cadet, every SeeD, every Faculty, anyone who can even _hold_ a godddamn weapon - every single warm body we have. Bring them all. You hear me? All of them!”

_“Slow down, what-“_

“We’re at war. I want you ready to deploy in fifteen minutes.”

_“I’m not just gonna-“_

“You’re going to do _exactly _what I tell you to do, to the fucking letter!” Squall shouted, “I am the Grand Master, and I am _ordering you_ to prep everyone for an assault!”

_“I don’t take orders from you!”_ Quistis snapped, _“Either tell me what’s going on, or tell me what’s going on – either way, nobody’s prepping anyone!”_

“Come the fuck down here.” Squall said, “Now.”

_“Wha-t?”_ Quistis chuckled nervously.

“Come down here and say that to my face, if you’ve got the guts.”

_“Fuck you, Leonhart! Fuck you! I’m better off taking a look at the security footage than talking to you right now!”_

“There’s nothing to fucking see, haven’t you figured that out by now!? Hyne’s sake - she’s dead, Quistis!” Squall shouted, his voice breaking as tears finally began to fall, “Don’t you fucking get it? She’s _dead!_”

Squall’s knees buckled and he fell. He wept openly, sobs wracking his body as he tried to contain and pour out the agony in his chest. It clawed at his throat, reached into his mind and touched every wound, dug into every scar to make them wider, deeper. Just saying the words had cut him open, and he was bleeding out the tide he had tried for so long to hold back.

_“...what did you say?”_

Squall didn’t hear it. There was nothing else in existence for him in that moment but the epicenter of the explosion and the pure emotion raging through him.

* * *

His tears, impossibly, ran dry. After that, Squall was left drained, sitting in the silence and the half-light of the Master’s Level, still three steps away. Close enough to see the glint of her partially melted wedding band, a misshapen halo on the ground. Up ahead, beyond the walkway, he could see the sandbag. He saw her gloves, lying forgotten on the ground.

_Everything is gone._

He didn’t know how much time had passed since he had come down. He didn’t care.

_...and what am I supposed to do now?_

Numb inside, Squall pushed the ground and got up on his feet. He looked at his home. The way it was built had allowed it to remain unscathed, a few layers of paint had been scorched off, marking the explosion with blossoming, jagged lines, but since it had been modeled after bomb shelters, he knew that it’d take a lot more than that to bring it down.

His thoughts went to the bottle of Galbadian whiskey waiting for him in the kitchen.

_It’s going to kill you, _her voice echoed in his head. Memory of a downward spiral, now like the memory of heaven itself.

_No, _he thought, _it didn’t._

_I wish it had._

He dragged himself to what was left of the garden wall. He climbed the debris and went around to get to the front door. He saw that the door was open and the keycard reader was broken.

Squall stepped inside and turned on the light. A glimpse at the familiar layout of the suite and he couldn’t shut it back off fast enough. When illuminated, it was all too familiar, too calm, too unaffected by the apocalypse that had just happened just outside the walls. The world had ended, he knew, so why didn’t his home know it?

The Moogle clock on the wall was ticking without a worry in the world.

The afterimage, burned into his eyes, made it look like she was just out, and would be back. She’d be back, he’d see, a smile on her face and a colorfully-worded stab at how annoying the cadets were, that they were never that annoying when they were cadets... the scent of strawberries in her hair, and the weight of the world hidden behind her eyes...

Squall felt bile rise. He stumbled across the suite in the dark, bouncing off corners and barely managed to throw himself into the bathroom. He knelt down, heard the medals on his chest clink against the ceramic of the toilet bowl before vomiting. He coughed, feeling the wretched taste burning in the back of his throat, one hand glued to the toilet seat.

_“The easiest part is to pretend and the hardest thing about that is knowing it’s all make-believe.”_

Squall clenched his teeth hard. He was drenched in sweat, he could feel his shirt clinging to his body. The room was too small, the level was too small, the world was too small...

A thought exploded in his head, like a bullet fragmenting in his brain.

_It’s not the balance but the pedestal._

Squall cracked up. He threw his head back and laughed, the sound ringing in the bathroom, reflected off of the surfaces. His laughter was smothered by rising anger, he drew a sharp breath, and then started laughing again as it melted away in the chaos of his mind.

His hands were shaking. They reached for his head, to pull his hair out, but the strands slid harmlessly from his fingertips. Too short.

_Rinoa shaved my head..._

His sword piercing her heart under the ashen skies of Deling City, and he was sobbing in between chuckles, caught in the riptide of madness.

When he was finally spent, he laid down on the cool tiles, breathing heavily. He looked up and at the door. His eyes had adjusted to the dark, and he could see the outline of the threshold.

_Is anyone else alive out there?_

He closed his eyes.

_Does it even matter..?_

* * *

Quistis couldn’t think. She couldn’t breathe. She was aware that Seifer had her arm and was dragging her somewhere, all the while barking orders at the comm and holding a conversation with that girl, what was her name... the one with the crutches, the library girl, the victim.

A flash and Selphie’s name sprung in her head.

_No. We are not victims. We are casualties._

Darina. Her name was Darina.

_What the hell do I care what her name is?_

Seifer was speaking. “...you like puzzles?”

“Sir?”

“Puzzles, you like ‘em?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Not like that. More like the Leonhart Archives?”

Fear in her stammering. “Y-y-yes, s-sir.”

“Fuckin’ A. Quistis, watch the step, honey.” Up one step. Carpeting under her booths, soft, “Now, get behind your – the fuck are you looking at, cadet? Get the fuck out. Get out, all of you! The Library is closed! It’s safe to go outside now anyway, you can stop hiding here! Now fucking _move_!”

The stampede of combat boots on the carpet. The wind of bodies brushing past them. The thousand different visions of Selphie dying.

“Now, here’s your puzzle...” the world was shifting incline, “Quistis, hold still, honey.” A hand holding her steady, “Pull up the security footage of the Master’s Level for the past hour. Then sit down, go through it, every angle, until shit hits the fan. You’ll know it when you see it.”

_You’ll know it when you watch her die from every available angle._

“I want you to do that, and then tell us everything you can about the assassin.”

“As-assassin?”

“Yes, damn it, assassin. Don’t tell anyone. I’m sure they all guessed by now, but they don’t need to know that she’s dead.”

_But she is! _Quistis screamed in her head, _Why not tell them everything?_

“Got it?” Seifer asked.

“Yes, sir!”

“Do this, and then you can ask me for anything, and it’ll be done. Got it?”

“Yes, sir!”

“Get to work. Quistis, this way, honey, let’s sit you down.”

The world was a mess of shapes without meaning. Hands pushed her down and sat her down, and suddenly, there was a scar, cutting a clean line between a pair of cold blue eyes looking into hers with concern filling the surface. Behind those eyes, she saw, was something else, a tint of barely restrained pain that mirrored her own.

* * *

An hour passed before Squall opened his eyes again, aching somewhat, having lost consciousness right there on the bathroom floor. The brief respite provided by his sluggish mind allowed him to stretch and to clumsily push the ground. He managed to get to his knees. His eyes adjusted to the dark and allowed him to grab the edge of the sink for support.

The hardest thing to do in existence was to stand up again.

For a moment, he wondered why he even should.

_Was there ever a reason?_

Squall got up to his feet. He made out the outline of the threshold, aimed, and managed to pass through it, hands groping in the dark, touching all that was now pointless geometry to him. Nevertheless, he found his way to the kitchen.

He thought about a cadet named Ursa Ingrit. A Fisherman’s Horizon recruit, enthusiastic. Weaponsmith’s daughter, an excellent swordfighter. Excellent... but careless. She had ended up a field exam casualty. Sword through the heart. Some Galbadian ex-soldier had gotten lucky and run her through with it. Dead at seventeen. He had taken her back personally.

The only cadet from Fisherman’s Horizon, the place that had been their salvation time and again and all he could send back was the dead body of a daughter.

He had helped with everything. He had undressed her and washed the body, he had dressed her up in her funeral dress. He had polished her shoes himself. He had helped construct the fishing boat that’d be her coffin, hammered the nails in one by one. He had helped set her on it and helped lower her into the water; and he had stayed with her father to watch the tides take her away to the next world over.

Her father had come with her funeral bottle. It was an old custom; upon a birth, a relative would go under the docks to collect the grapes that grew from the moss and make the drink. The bottle would wait, and the drink would age and so sweeten. The bottle would be opened upon the death of the one it was made for, and drank by family... and in Squall’s case, esteemed guests.

This was all she had left behind, a bottle of grape wine as they called it and her father’s memories of her. So he had raised his glass in her honor, again and again and again, until only the bottle itself remained.

_That’s what I’m going to do now, _he thought as he found his way to the counter, _I’ll drink until it kills me, just like you said it would. I don’t care what happens after that. Not anymore._

* * *

Silence in the library. The smell of the carpeting, of old volumes still enduring on the shelves filled her nostrils and Quistis blinked.

“Seifer...”

A warm hand on her cheek.

“There’ll be time for that.” He said.

“H-how are you so... calm?”

A brief moment of pain in his eyes. “Somebody has to be.”

“And that’s you?”

“I can take whatever you have to dish out.” He said, “So, if it’d make you feel better to think I don’t care or something like that, go ahead. It’s alright.”

“Seifer, I... I don’t know what... Hyne...”

Seifer waited. He caressed her hair when she buried her face into her hands and started to sob. He didn’t say anything. He held back every word, afraid that if he said anything, she would retreat, bottle it up. Maybe he wasn’t good for much, he guessed, but he could do this.

“Darina’s on it.” Seifer said.

“Squall, h-he’s not...”

Seifer shook his head. “No." hesitation, "...and if it’s what he said it is, then I don’t think he’s coming up anytime soon. If ever.”

“Where’s Brea?” Quistis asked.

“I don’t know. I think-“ his comm-link buzzed. He clicked it, “What?”

_“Master Almasy, is Master Trepe accounted for?”_

“Like I’d let her out of my sight.”

_“I just spoke to Darina, sir. She’s going to handle it. I’m in my office, I suggest you come up here. We need to open a channel to Esthar.”_

“And what the fuck for?” Seifer snarled, “Seriously?”

_“Sir, this is a _casus belli._ The rules of engagement-“_

“Fuck the rules! I’ll say it again, you cold bitch, fuck-the-rules! I know you weren’t all good with her, but if you think I’m gonna let you sit there and-“

_“Do not presume to know what I feel about this.”_ Brea’s voice was cold. Seifer visibly shook. He had never heard her address him in that tone of voice, nor in this manner, _“I’m just doing what needs to be done. I have a duty to this Garden, and so do you. We need to do a lot of things before we can mobilize, one of them being a formal declaration, so that there is no doubt about us in this. I can do it all just as easily without you than with you, if need be. If it's all the same..."_

“Alright, alright...” Seifer sighed, “Hold off on that. We’re coming up. Don’t fucking go anywhere.”

He clicked the comm-link closed. Quistis raised an eyebrow.

“Brea wants to see us in her office.” Seifer said, unable to hold back a strained grin, “Imagine that.”

* * *

Squall took off his jacket and shirt and threw them onto the arm of the couch. Careful to avoid the coffee table, he passed the couch by in favor of the armchair next to it. He put the bottle and the glass on the coffee table. He twisted off the bottle cap and poured himself a glass. With the drink in his hand, he sat down and leaned back. He stared into the darkness, listening to the steady ticking of the Moogle clock.


	13. There Will Be No Retaliation

**(A conspiracy. Ellone Contingency Zero.)**

* * *

The Library was closed for the first time since Darina had started working there. She was sitting in the archive room, behind the back-lit control console. She was flanked on both sides by towers of data stores, all linked to the console. There was a projector hanging from the ceiling, a half-sphere which was presently playing back security cam footage from the Master’s Level, projected onto the wall.

The screen was split into four, narrowed down from the twelve that it used to be and was playing, in slow motion, Selphie Tilmitt’s last stand.

_She put up quite a fight... almost won._

_Almost._

It made Darina sick. It made her want to take the gun in her pocket, fuck the crutches, and limp her way to Esthar if need be, to empty the clip into whoever was responsible.

She stopped right before the assassin landed his first solid punch into Selphie’s side. She rewound. Fifteen seconds.

In her head, she was reliving the tainted memory of a slow night, three years ago, when an insomniac Selphie had wandered into the Library and had decided to teach her how to dance with crutches, without straining her back. Darina hadn’t quite managed it, of course, but Selphie hadn’t given up until the end of her shift.

Darina couldn’t dance, she knew that. _But what if you could, _Selphie had asked, _and you didn’t know it?_

She couldn’t fight, either. But she could do this, or so she hoped, because nearly three hours of going over the same few scenes in every way she knew how, all Darina could find was written in a small notebook in her hand, an inscription on the back plate of the assassin:

**FC102034**

**44/50**

Darina played it again, one more time. There had to be something else, there just had to be something other than the last few moments of the record, where her shoulders slumped and she hung her head in apparent defeat, her lips shaping a name Darina knew all too well. She stopped right before Selphie looked into the camera and said, _I'm sorry._ Darina knew who that was for and didn't like the way it made her feel dead inside.

* * *

The high-pitched ringing of the phone registered as an annoying sound piercing his eardrums. His hand rose from his lap and found the receiver. He picked up the call.

“_Grand Master, sir?_”

“Speaking.”

_“President Elise Galloway is on line three. As General Willings has instructed us, we told her you weren’t taking any calls but she insis-“_

“Put her through.”

He stared at his first glass. He hadn't drunk a single solitary sip yet.

_“Understood, sir.”_

Squall waited while the hold music played. A clean, smooth recording of what Selphie had called the Garden Symphony Orchestra. Their own theme, originally composed for Balamb Garden. A particularly good passage was cut short by Elise Galloway's voice.

_“Grand Master Leonhart, good evening.” _

“...call me Squall. I think you’ve earned that.”

_“...Squall. I’ve heard about what happened.”_

“Of course you did.” Squall replied, “It was your assassin.”

_“General Willings called me... I didn’t send in an assassin.”_

“The same type of cyborg that Brea saved your ass from.” Squall said, “Back in Deling.”

_“What are you talking about?”_

“Why the act, Elise? I know you know.” Squall sighed.

“_Master Trepe said something similar, but I don’t...”_

“Actually, you know what? Forget it. It doesn’t matter anymore. Nothing does.”

A moment’s silence.

_“I’m sorry.”_

“That, we have in common.”

_“...I didn’t want this. You need to know that.”_

“I believe you.” He said, his voice deadpan. His blood betrayed his tone, it was boiling in his veins. “You’re relatively new to all of this.”

_“I was trying to look out for the many. And I won’t try to deny it: I ordered the assault. But I didn’t target anyone in particular. I wanted the Garden, not any of you dead. I can send you the executive order if you-”_

“Are you afraid I’ll retaliate, Elise? Are you afraid I’ll hit you where it hurts, too?”

_“I...”_

“Just tell me.”

_“...yes.”_

“I’ve killed four sorceresses. Won two wars. Countless battles. But everybody has to lose sometime. So if you want to hear it from me, I’ll say it: you win. Enough’s enough. I don’t want to lose what little family I have left to your ambitions. There’ll be no retaliation. Effective immediately, I’m decommissioning the Gemini Squad, for good. I’ll leave the Garden after the funeral. It’s over, Elise. No more.”

The line was silent for a few moments.

_“...I understand. But I still don’t-“_

“Whatever.”

Squall hung up.

* * *

Quistis cradled her head in her hands. She didn’t feel them there. She couldn’t think. She couldn’t speak. If she was breathing, she didn’t know. Her eyes were fixated on the carpet’s pattern, intricate lines crossing and wrapping around one another. Her mind was a Bite Bug’s nest, buzzing thoughts flying every which way, each one of them more venomous than the last, angling towards not anger, or resentment, or despair, but rather piecing together an internal montage of her little sister.

_I’m glad I haven’t junctioned a single GF in years... I don’t want to forget one moment of you. Not one single solitary moment._

“Is Squall still down there?” Seifer asked.

At the very edge of her field of vision was Seifer’s boots. Quistis didn’t need to look. He was sitting right across from her, arms crossed, slumped in his chair. He just didn’t know what to say. He wondered briefly if this was what they had felt when they were led to believe that he was dead all those years ago – before they wished him dead, before they became his family again.

“Yes, he is.” Brea replied.

“Just checking.”

To their side and behind her desk, Brea was fighting the urge to take the nearest object and hurl it towards the double doors leading into her office. Her left arm was in a sling, the straps trapped beneath the epaulets of her uniform, and his free arm felt out of balance, extraneous to herself, mirroring how she felt about everything else. She was going back and forth between comprehending Selphie’s absence and forgetting that she wouldn’t be coming in through those doors again.

Her phone ringing sounded louder than it actually was when it shattered the silence. Brea remembered that her left arm was out of commission when she tried to reach for it. When she saw the caller ID, she decided to take the call.

“You’re on speaker, Darina.” She said. Upon hearing the name, Seifer sat up properly, and Quistis lifted her head up, “Masters Almasy and Trepe are here.”

_“I’ve gone through the footage as you asked, sir.” _Darina said, _“I have found something.”_

“Go on.” Quistis said.

_“The cyborg that... well, the cyborg’s serial number is visible during a very short period of time. The plate reads: FSC102034, 44/50.”_

Brea clenched her fist. Another one of Esthar’s dirty fucking tricks.

“So it _was_ fucking Esthar?” Seifer spat, “Motherfucking Esthar!?”

_“S-sir?”_

“It’s the same serial number as the second sniper back in Deling.” Brea explained, “Except that one was 43/50.”

A moment’s silence.

“Darina?” Quistis inquired.

_“That... explains a lot.”_ Darina said.

“What the fuck does it explain?” Seifer asked, “There is still no unit that’s 50 fucking strong.”

_“No, sir, there isn’t. But the cyborg doesn’t belong to an Estharian unit. It was part of a batch of 50 combat cyborgs lent to Galbadia after the Arms Exchange you’ve –I mean, Master Trepe - arbitrated three years ago.”_

Quistis remembered. An arms proliferation and exchange deal she herself had negotiated, during which the then-Esthar President James Inq had agreed to give Galbadia a batch of 50 cyborgs, under the condition that they would not be reproduced as-is, as a show of good faith.

“I remember.” Quistis said.

_“I followed their trail, thank Hyne for the access we have... according to transport manifests, numbers 43 and 44 were sent to Trabia a month ago and were scheduled to arrive in the morning of the night Headmaster Sun Aeryn committed suicide. These are listed ETA’s of course, sir, but Trabia Port Authority records show that they arrived as scheduled.”_

Something clicked in Quistis’ head.

“The outpost on the border.” She said, “They were the armaments... no. They would be both the armaments _and_ the personnel. The Master-at-Arms wasn’t a Galbadian soldier, it was a lent cyborg... shit.”

_“However, ma’am – according to the records, these two cyborgs were seized at the port by Trabian authorities, along with a few more containers on board.”_

“What was in those?” Seifer asked.

_“Munitions, sir, supplies for the weapons cache.”_

“This gives...” Brea hesitated, “...an alibi for the cyborgs. Plus, tells us what Oura Synn was actually doing.”

_“Actually, sir, it doesn’t, and that’s the strange thing. The land transport that picked up these shipments from the port shows the cyborgs being picked up, but not being discharged. They... disappear on the way.”_

Quistis thoughts became a jigsaw puzzle and the pieces started to fall into place by themselves. As the picture got clearer, her heart started to race.

“So they were either never loaded, or were retrieved... somebody extracted them either on the way, or at the destination...”

_“The serial number doesn’t check out either, sir. I’ve cross-checked it with the rest of the 50. Only cyborgs number 43 and 44 were given the FC prefix; the rest follow the usual format. I haven’t been able to figure out what the FC stands for.”_

A click.

“Fated Children.” Quistis said. She took a deep breath, “Fuck... _fuck!”_

_“What!?”_ Seifer asked, “Are you fucking serious!?”

Quistis delivered a sturdy kick to Brea’s desk, which didn’t budge, which pissed her off even more.

“_M-Ma’am?”_ Darina’s voice came.

“We’ve been played.” Quistis snarled, “We’ve all been fucking played! We’ve all been fucking, _fucking-_”

_“I-I’m sorry, ma’am, I...”_

Something in the tone of her voice stopped Quistis short. A flash and she remembered Darina lying in an Infirmary bed, broken and never to heal again; a symptom of her failures, a result of their failures. She remembered wondering then, as she had spoken to Rinoa for the last time as friends, how many times the girl had apologized to stop Zell.

Quistis took a deep breath.

“Darina, I’m sorry.” She said, “It’s okay. It’s okay, really. You did nothing wrong.”

“Thank you, Darina.” Brea said, “Thank you for your service tonight.”

“Take the night off, why don’t you?” Seifer suggested, “Get some rest.”

_“If... if that’s okay, I would like to continue digging. I will let you know if I find something else.”_

* * *

Time passed, kept dutifully by the clock.

He could smell the whiskey where he sat. Rich, sharp, well aged. Galbadian. On the rocks, sitting right next to the bottle. He could almost taste it without even touching it, his mind replaying many different memories drowning in it, as well as other drinks that he felt less affection for.

Alcohol was, above all else, the fight that had started it all. The fight about how hard it was just to survive by the skin of their teeth, clinging onto the idea of living. But living was and maybe had always been foreign to them; and they had failed to fashion together a life out of their survival. In the absence of life, of things that he felt on some level that he was meant to do, to feel, to experience, she had been there.

In the distant recesses of his mind, he could hear war drums beating. Getting louder and louder with each beat.

The clarity of Rinoa had been one thing... but it could never compare to the reality of Selphie. He hated himself in that moment for thinking like this, for not being able to think any other way when he stared at the ice cubes in the drink, watching them slowly melt away. To compare two corpses just because he had loved them both – how pathetic, how fucked up was that?

But there had been her after the drunken fight; and during the hell of Rinoa’s mind games, seeing her dead again and again, killing her, loving her, and everything else that had come after had been marked by her reality and now, as the war drums of the Moogle clock continued to beat, louder and louder, what was there that could bring all of it back?

His fingers curled around the glass. It was cold to the touch. He lifted it off the coffee table, licking his lips. One sip and he’d get close to remembering why he was there.

The half-melted wedding band sitting in the epicenter flashed in his mind. The war drums reached a deafening crescendo and with a desperate scream, he tossed the glass at the clock and knocked it off the wall. He heard the satisfying sounds of glass breaking and the clock's mechanism shattering, sending the gears all over the floor.

He noticed that he was standing up. He didn’t know how he had gotten up, but there he was, on his feet. The suite was absolutely silent.

“Fine.” He mumbled to himself, “One more time.”

_For you. Just for you._

He took a shower first. The water, on the chillier side of warm, cleansed his skin, running between well-toned muscles and disparate scar tissue alike. He missed his old hair in that moment, before the regular, self-made buzzcut had become his norm, but he noticed that he didn’t remember what having his hair as he used to felt like anymore. The one thing he did recall was how he had felt his scar in the first two weeks.

His fingers ran down its length, tracing an entire history made in one wound. His first scar, his defining scar. Like his first kill, he remembered everything about this one. The glee in Seifer’s eyes as he had cut him, the way the stitches had stung as Dr. Kodowaki, Hyne bless her soul, had removed them. The way Quistis had remarked that it was quite becoming in a way that was full of intimacy that he couldn’t quite place.

Thinking that the girl in the white dress would find it hideous.

Squall shut off the water and got out. He dried off.

He discarded the towel. He pulled his uniform out. He couldn’t help but admire the design. His ceremonial uniform was meant to be both functional and distinguishing. Its color, the pure white, was a direct contrast to the blacks and navy blues of regular uniforms. It also marked his status as the Garden Master with the unique features of golden epaulets with tassels. Ocean Garden Grand Master.

What a fucking joke.

The pants first. Comfortable, lined with Chaterpillar silk. There were two lines running down the side of each leg, navy blue with golden piping. He put on his combat boots. Comfortable, durable, polished. Ready.

He put on his shirt. The lapel button was left open. Just how she liked it.

His jacket came next. It was like his second skin by now, sliding easily on. The cuffs both featured the SeeD cross, masterfully embroidered by Shumi artisans, encased within a looping embellishment of the same colors. He buttoned up the golden buttons running down the chest one by one, feeling the stand-up collar steadying as he got closer to the top.

He remembered the small fact of life he always said to the cadets that had made SeeD: _understand that the moment you put this uniform on, you have gotten dressed for your funeral. Forget the statistics. These are the clothes you have chosen to die in._

_Yes. I will die in these clothes._

A reminder ached in his chest. Gunshot wound, a hair’s breadth from his heart. The uniform that had he had taken the bullet in was still in his closet, the closest he had actually come. Brea had had to shoot through him in order to get to her target. He had trusted her aim. He hadn’t been disappointed during the month and a half it had taken him to fully heal.

_So close. But not quite._

With his jacket in place, Squall went to the dresser and pulled the drawer open. This was always the hardest part for him. Ellone’s comb was lying there, waiting to say goodnight. But the comb wasn’t what he wanted to get.

The first and second were two SeeD Iron Crosses, ones he felt proud carrying. His reward for killing Adel and Ultimecia. Gun metal gray, featuring a small SeeD emblem, trapped by a thin circle in the middle of a cross.

The second was the SeeD Silver Cross, the one that marked his regret. Rinoa. Without the circle this time, a gleaming silver star behind the SeeD emblem.

The third was the SeeD Golden Cross, the one he despised. Matron. Brilliant gold, polished to perfection, bearing the colors and emblem of SeeD only as an accessory to itself.

The final one wasn’t a medal. It was designed by Selphie, given to them as a gift. It was more akin to a navy blue pin that he attached to the collar of his jacket. A zero with the numeral II inside it. The Gemini Squad, the Zero Squad. The Fated Children.

_I don’t know what we were fated for, Matron._

Squall went to the case next to the dresser. The latch clacked open and revealed to him the sight that he still found breathtaking. It was his own design, based off on the Revolver. Slightly curved blade, handle much straighter to allow a better grip. The trigger embedded into the handle itself, squeezed easily, but not easy enough to allow for misfires. Pure Odineum, light as a feather, stronger than the most refined adamantine, sharper than any other blade he knew. The weapon of the Sorceress Slayer. The weapon he had lived by and would die by.

The gunblade was bequeathed to the Garden in the event of his death, as it was one of the few undiluted Odineum weapons in their arsenal, and thus had spent the better part of the past decade in its case. He used field variations of the same design, but the occasion called for something special.

_I just need one more thing._

* * *

Silence in the General’s office. Seifer decided to be the bastard who broke it.

“Do we tell him?”

“Are you serious..?” Quistis asked him, her voice almost a hiss.

“I didn’t mean _ever_, I meant right this second.”

“We only know that there’s a power play.” Brea said.

“Yeah, that fucking Esthar disappeared two cyborgs just to say they weren’t theirs!” Seifer snapped.

“There is another possibility.” Brea said, “Considering who cyborgs belonged to.”

“Wait, hold it right there. Stop.” Quistis stood up, “This is just too much.” weary, she rubbed her temples. She could feel a headache finally coming on, “So, Elise attacks us, because she thinks we tried to kill her.”

“Of course she’ll say that, she needs an excuse.” Seifer said, “She starts shit out of the blue, it’s on her; but if it’s in retaliation, then it’s self-defense - of course she’ll blame it on us!”

“But she maintained that she thought it was us. That was the one thing I didn't get when I finally got a hold of her yesterday - why the act?” Quistis said.

“Shit.”

Quistis and Seifer both looked at Brea, who was holding a clenched fist over her desk, as if unsure whether to smash it to pieces or not.

“The second sniper...” she said, “Fired the same time as me. I first thought it was just good timing on my part. But no. He _waited_ for me. He wasn’t looking through the scope, he had already locked on... he was looking at _me._”

“Brea...” Quistis’ brow furrowed, “When did he spring back into action?”

“After Selph...” a sharp pain in her chest, “...after she dragged Elise out of there.”

“Fuck.” Seifer spat, “They wanted her to think it was us, so she’d react, so we’d react to her... fuck... we did get played, but not by Elise. No, not by the fucking sorceress...”

“At least not all the way.” Quistis said.

“Like I said.” Brea relaxed her hand, “There is another possibility.”

“But that leaves one thing out. Doesn’t answer my question.” Seifer said, “_When_ do we tell him?”

The question hung in the air for a few moments.

“In the morning.” Brea said, “After the funeral.”

“Probably for the best.” Seifer said, and hung his head. He looked miserable. “How long do we have to go until morning?”

Quistis checked the clock.

“About six hours internal, give or take.”

“In that case, I’m gonna go and pretend to sleep.” Seifer said, standing up, “I’m also gonna pretend... that the messenger girl’s gonna come calling in the morning.”

He shuffled on out, followed by Quistis. Brea was the last to leave. She closed the doors of her office behind her. The sound of the lock engaging echoing dully in the hallway.

_And what am I going to pretend now?_

The lonely General in the heart of her defiled fortress, wondered, as she began to walk, how long it had been since she had forgotten what it was like to be an unassuming recruit, dreaming of being where she had been for the past two decades or so.

She remembered the revolver waiting for her in her room... and she knew.

_I’m going to pretend I died in Trabia all those years ago when she failed... I’m going to pretend she didn’t help save me._

* * *

Squall picked up his comm-link. He switched through several channels until he found the one he was looking for.

_“Squad Zeta reporting.”_

“This is the Grand Master. Current location?”

_“Esthar City, sir.”_

“Ellone Contingency Zero is in effect. Deploy immediately.”

_“Are the mission parameters the same, sir?”_

“Yes. And yes, this is still a stealth mission, and will remain so until I contact you to confirm Phase 2.”

_“Understood sir. Zeta, out.”_

Squall clicked the comm-link off. He went to the phone and dialed dispatch.

“_Yes, Grand Master?”_

“Conference call, discreet. The following dorm rooms...” the list rolled off his tongue, following a sequence that only he could see, the first two marking the first mistake.

After the second, and in some instances the third ring, groggy voices, annoyed at being woken up, sounded their hails.

“This is the Grand Master.” Squall said. He hesitated, but only for a moment, “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry for this.” He took a deep breath, and it was gone, “Ellone Contingency Zero is in effect. Thirty minutes.”

A few moments of silence. A little doubting voice in his head.

_They’ll fight for you, but they won’t die for you._

A round of affirmations strangled that voice. Squall put the receiver down. His thoughts were circling.

_You forced my hand. I did everything, made every effort to avoid this... to not let it come to this._

“Radio silence until then.”

Another round of yes sirs. He shut his comm-link off. He picked up the phone and called up the hangar bay. He relayed to them the same message: _Ellone Contingency Zero is in effect._

They affirmed. He hung up for the last time that night.

His anger surfaced then and he clenched his teeth, allowing it to course through his entire being.

_Fucking Sorceresses. You’re all the same to me, and at the end of the day, your death won’t fix anything... but it will ease my pain, and that’s all you’re good for._

_Just wait. Just you wait._

_You think you know how wars are fought._

_I’ll show you how wars are _won_._


	14. The Art of War

**(Missing dad. How wars are fought.)**

* * *

Ellone woke up with a start, to the sound of the phone ringing in the living room. She waited for it to stop, clinging onto the last vestiges of sleep. When it started to ring for a second time, she knew that whoever was calling needed to be heard. She threw off the covers. Unable to find her slippers, she went barefooted into the short, narrow corridor leading to her living room. She turned on the lights to remember where the phone was, squinting to see through the sudden burst of luminescence. She turned them off again and followed the sound, miraculously avoiding colliding with any of her furniture. She picked the receiver up and sat down by the window.

“Who is it..?” she asked, her throat a bit sore.

“_Sis, it’s me.”_

Ellone’s hand that was rubbing her eyes stopped. She knew that tone of voice.

“Squall?”

He said nothing for a few moments. Ellone waited patiently, telling her mind to stop making up scenarios; he would speak when he wanted to.

_“I really miss dad.”_

Ellone’s eyes flew open and suddenly, she was wide awake. In all the years they had known one another, this was the first time he had used the term _dad_ to refer to Laguna. He had always drawn the line at _father_.

_“I didn’t think I could.”_ He went on, _“Or would. He wasn’t there when I was growing up... he wasn’t even a person back then. He was an idea. The man that abandoned me and you. And then he was... and now he’s gone.”_

Ellone could feel tears stinging her eyes, trailing down her cheeks and falling onto her lap.

“Squall...” she said, “...he loved you. He loved you so much, he... he always regretted not being there, not knowing that you existed sooner. Raine never told him she was pregnant when he left... you know that.”

_“...I think he loved the man he thought I would be, in the end. Hoped that I would be.”_

“He loved the son that he knew.” Ellone barely held back a sob. The wound of Uncle Laguna being clawed at like this was quickly becoming overwhelming, “And he-“

_“Selphie’s dead, Sis.”_ Squall said.

Ellone felt it like a physical blow, a punch to the gut. Her tears stopped as shock began to spread all across her body. She felt numb. “Wh-what?”

_“They killed her. There wasn’t even enough left of her to fill her chalice...”_

“Oh, Hyne... Oh, Hyne...” Ellone kept repeating it as she pressed a shaking hand against her lips, trying not to scream. Not now, not when her little brother needed something else.

_“I don’t know if dad would still love me if he knew what a monster I am. Maybe he would... because he could. Maybe he shouldn’t have. But everything else...” _Squall sighed, _“It’s not going to matter after tonight.”_

“Squall, wha-“

_“Believe whatever they will say about me and spare yourself. Goodbye, Sis.”_

The line went dead.

* * *

The power hub that connected Esthar City to the rest of the power plants was in the outskirts of the city, moved after the Blitz for security reasons. From the outside, it looked like a factory: rough lines, basic structure, grounded firmly but otherwise featureless. Inside of it was a testament to hybrid architecture: the curves and smooth surfaces of Esthar bound with the more functional, rusted metal grills and iron handle bars of Galbadia. Apart from a solar panel field in the Great Salt Lake, this power plant was more than enough for Esthar’s power needs, siphoning off stable, dense, para-magical matter supplied by Dr. Odine. It would last an eternity.

Zan checked his watch.

Well, it would last a few more minutes, at least.

His comm-link buzzed.

“Commander.”

_“The last of the charges have been placed.”_

“Good. Regroup. We’re waiting for the signal.”

_“Yes, sir.”_

He closed the frequency. The control console in front of him, showing various statistics was silent, but the rest of the facility was vibrating with an electric hum.

Years ago, Zan and the rest of what would be Squad Zeta had stood in Brea Willings’ office, facing Grand Master Leonhart. Zan remembered the calm, almost deadpan tone of the living legend’s voice betray the weight of what he had told them: that they would now be his own squad. His eyes, ears and weapon arm in Esthar. They would be permanently stationed there.

Then, he had told them about Ellone Contingency Zero, one of many such contingencies he had developed. Need-to-know only, and they only needed to know the first one.

It included the placement of high-velocity explosives all around the power capacitors inside the plant, to be detonated on command via remote control, cutting off all power to Esthar. It would take one minute and forty-two seconds for the solar panels to start compensating, but in that time, the honeycomb shield protecting the city, as well as other vital spots on the continent, would be down. Enough time for something to slip in.

Enough time for the Grand Master’s hovercraft squadron to penetrate into Estharian airspace.

The detonator fit the palm of Zan’s hand and was already armed, the red button atop it blinking lazily. He checked his watch again. Two minutes until the squad had to be back. If they didn’t, and if the order came, Zan knew he would detonate the bombs without batting an eye. The plan in motion was heavily dependent on timing, and Zan was not about to let the Grand Master down, no matter the cost.

Still... he prayed that he wouldn’t have to.

The comm-link buzzed.

“Commander.”

_“This is the Grand Master. Is everything in place?”_

Zan knew he couldn’t see him, but still, he stood to attention.

“Yes, sir.”

_“Stand by.”_

The button on the detonator was blinking.

* * *

Squall’s mind wandered. Through the port hole, he could see Esthar approaching, still a ways away, but getting closer. The other hovercrafts had scattered some time ago, leaving only him, and only to satiate what was now churning inside of him... it felt like an alien being with many tentacles to him; each one wrapped around his limbs, his heart, his mind, his soul. It was inevitable, this bloodlust, this need to do violence – he was a SeeD, after all. This was what he had been trained to do -had done- all his life.

His thoughts wandered to the sorceress. After the woman had been whisked away by Vascaroon, he knew that they had tried to figure out just what her trespass had given her. It wasn’t just the essence of black magic, Vascaroon had discovered, because that would’ve been pedestrian. No - Hyne, in his cunning, had also given her something Vascaroon had written that should not be given to any living being: eternity. Immortality. His skin anchored her in the world, bound her to it. She could be injured, even killed, but the essence wouldn’t permit her to die unless someone took on the chains tied to the cosmic anchor holding her there. In a way, every time the sorceress died, she would be giving birth to a sorceress anew; “Hyne’s descendants” as the Gospels said.

All this from a hidden chamber inside the Tomb of the Unknown King.

Oh, he had known Elise was after it. He had sought the origin of the sorceress himself, in hopes that it would help him predict who the next one would be. He had ignored the obvious, that Elise would seek it out, no matter what piece of status quo he put forward... but, he had to admit, he couldn’t see what she would do with the knowledge.

_And what she did..._

The monster inside him stirred. Squall pushed it down. Just a while longer, that was all he needed – just until he touched the ground. It could be let out of its cage then and do what needed to be done... what he needed to do.

He permitted his mind to play back countless scenes of her death, time-lapse sequences of Rinoa’s nightmare that had never left him alone; countless times when he had watched field medics patch up simple flesh wounds, lost in himself, wondering what if the bullet had been two inches to the right, or left, or up; what if the blade had sunk in just the fraction of an inch deeper? And for years, for decades, any time she had taken any damage at all, he couldn’t help but feel the inevitable - looming just around the corner, patiently waiting to leap out at them.

_She just did what she thought was right, _the last vestige of Selphie’s conscience offered him, _she didn’t mean harm by it._

_Well, _he countered, _I’m doing what I think is right. And I mean harm. In all sorts of ways._

The buzzing of the cockpit’s intercom dispersed his thoughts.

_“We’re in position, Grand Master.”_

Squall’s hand went to his comm-link.

“Ellone Squadron, this is the Grand Master. Report.”

A round of affirmations followed.

“Stand by for your orders.”

_“Yes, sir!”_ they all said in unison.

Squall switched frequencies until he located Squad Zeta.

“_Commander.”_

“This is the Grand Master. Minus one thirty. Go.”

_“Yes, sir!”_

Squall quickly returned to the conference call with the other hovercrafts, mentally counting down.”

_“_This is the Grand Master. All hovercrafts, Ellone Contingency Zero is go. Ladies and gentlemen, I am truly honored to have served with you.”

* * *

The doors to Elise’s bedroom were kicked open, prompting her to sit up as sleep quickly deserted her. She reached for the light switch embedded into her bedside and clicked it. Nothing happened.

“Madame President!”

She recognized the voice, laced with light static. Lanc, head of her personal security detail. She threw off the covers and slipped her feet into the flats waiting by the bed – she bent down to slip in her heels.

“What is it?” she asked.

Two pairs of hands grabbed her by the arm and got her on her feet. The room felt cold to her bare legs.

“What is it?”

“We’re under attack.” Lanc said, “We have to get you to safety.”

Elise felt her heart start racing to a full pulse. Almost by instinct, she turned and pulled the drawer of her bedside. She grabbed a small data disk. She grabbed her night robe and put it on. She slipped the disk into the safe, zipper-close pocket inside the right side pocket.

The soldiers got her arms then and proceeded to drag her out of her bedroom, and through the sleeping quarters, towards the elevator at the end of the hall.

“But the shield-“ Elise began, but Lanc shook his head violently, stopping her.

“The shield is gone, Madame Presdient, as is the power plant, the solar fields, the Octagon, the barracks, the law enforcement HQ...”

“What did you- what’s-“

“There’s no time, Madame President!” Lanc snapped, “There’s a groundcar waiting for us at the entrance.”

“Where are we going?”

“As per protocol, the Sorceress’ Memorial.”

* * *

The dark blue hovercraft flew purposefully, its pilot fixated only on the target. She throttled the engines and sent the hovercraft shooting directly towards the rising spire of the Esthar Presidential Palace. Down below, she clocked a groundcar at the edge of the Palace grounds and figures moving towards it, one of them in a nightgown. She smiled. Right on schedule.

_Now, for the hard part._

She took a loop around the palace itself, engines booming and gradually inclined the nose of her craft upwards, tracing a gracious arc into the sky as the craft scaled the Palace’s exterior. The devices filling the passenger side slid down as the hovercraft circled around once more, rising, pushing maximum speed.

She was just glad that the momentum itself was just below the threshold for what she was carrying to be triggered: cases of HV-55. High Velocity Scatter Shot. It packed secondary incendiaries inside the main charges, which scattered upon detonation. Their superalloy casings could withstand the heat for a second and a half, two at the most, and they then ignited, the chemical charge hidden within scorching the oxygen in the air.

The hovercraft finally cleared the top of the Presidential Palace, at which point she stabilized her ascent, gradually tilting the hovercraft up as she went further away and further up from the palace before executing Split S, aiming the hovercraft at her target like a bullet and coming at the structure from above.

The roof of the Presidential Palace approached fast and in the time it took for her to calculate how many seconds she had until impact, everything went black.

The hovercraft punched through the roof of the spire, tearing the structure apart and detonated a few floors in. The force of the explosion shattered every pane of glass decorating the exterior of the Palace, the sound of it shook the ground. The explosion spread out from the impact point like cracks on glass, collapsing the surrounding floors, straining the others by undermining their integrity as the burning wreckage of the hovercraft kept tumbling down.

The projectiles set loose by the detonation flew every which way, through every gap that they could find; some bouncing off the walls and some tearing through already weakened floors, spreading out into the other parts of the structure...

...their detonation tore the Palace apart.

For those who would see it afterwards through the filtered lenses of surveillance drones, it looked like the fist of Hyne descending upon Esthar, crushing the symbol of their prosperity, the Presidential Palace, to dust. The building was shattered and the force of it threw Elise off her feet. She slammed into the side of the groundcar, the armored glass cracked ever-so-slightly, feeling the impact numbing her right arm and bringing with it the pain of a dislocated shoulder. She landed on her stomach, shock arresting her thought process and had no idea for how long she laid there, looking at the burning wreckage that once was the Palace.

Two hands helped her to her feet. Her knees grew weak and they buckled, but Lanc, with pieces of his armor cracked or gone, held her steady. With the back of a trembling hand, Elise wiped her nose clean of the blood.

She could hear them, through the ringing in her ears, starting the car and getting in, of doors being opened up and slammed home.

“Madame President?” Lanc’s voice was a distant echo.

For Elise, the sight was all. Even as Lanc stuffed her into the car, causing her shoulder to make its damage known, even when the door was closed and they began moving, all she could think of was the view from the end of the world.

“We’re only five blocks from the tram, Madame President.” Lanc informed Elise. Elise didn’t hear him. In the back of her head, she remembered a security protocol involving an underground tramway built between the Palace and the Sorceress’ Memorial.

“Incoming message, sir!” another guard said, “Secure channel!”

“Could be Mir.” Lanc said, “Hyne, I fucking hope it’s Mir. Take it.”

For a few moments, there was only the whirring of the engine and light static.

Then, _he_ spoke.

_“Are you watching, Elise?”_

Elise felt her heart skip a few beats and then finally stop. The car was kept moving by the sheer force of will of Lanc.

His voice. Cold, deadpan, but not monotone; full of repressed emotion, full of virile hatred; of malice and violence and death.

“S-s-s-s-s-s...” Elise stuttered. She couldn’t breathe, she couldn’t draw in enough oxygen to speak.

He spoke again.

“This_ is how wars are fought.”_

“I... I-I-I-I-I...” Elise stammered.

_“...and this is how it always ends.”_

The line went dead.

“Two blocks, Madame Pres-“ Lanc started, but he stopped when her hand gripped his damaged shoulder pad, fingers curling inwards with a vice grip.

“Get...” Elise tried to breathe in through her nose, “G-g-g-et Quistis Trepe and... a-a-a-and S-Seifer Almasy o-on the line. Now.”

* * *

Brea woke up to her comm-link’s shrieking. She groped for it on her bedside, much to the protests of Ami stirring from her sleep. She put it on and sat up.

“This is the General, what is it?”

_“Get up and get dressed.”_

“Garden Master Trepe?”

_“Fuck the formalities, get dressed and get down to the hangar bay! You’ve got five minutes!”_

The line went dead. Brea threw off the covers and went to her wardrobe as she clicked through the channels.

_“Hangar bay?”_

“This is the General. Tell me Garden Master Trepe’s orders.”

_“Yes, sir! She has ordered us to prep the Ragnarok for launch.”_

Brea’s good hand froze as she was unfolding her undershirt with one hand.

_What’s going on?_

* * *

Seifer couldn’t believe that until Edea’s death, until the little last-minute gift she had given to Quistis, she could barely walk. Now, still carrying her cane, out of habit rather than necessity, she was walking fast enough for him to wonder if he should be running to keep up.

“Keep up.” Quistis said curtly.

Seifer bit his tongue. The brief and heated discussion of why they should even come to Elise’s rescue was still three minutes ago and he understood her position well enough not to try and defend his. She had a point, and that was enough for now.

“Where would we even go?” Seifer asked instead, as Quistis walked out the door, “I mean, Esthar, sure, but we need to know where he’s headed to intercept him, and it looks like _that’s_ straight to hell!”

Quistis thought about it for a moment. Winning a war, he had said. A Sorceress War, most like. Where could...

A switch clicked in her head, and she knew.

_Where else..?_

“He’s going to the Sorceress’ Memorial.”

“And how do you know that?” Seifer asked.

“Because that’s where Elise is going. The Presidential Palace has an underground tramway connected to the Memorial in case of such a thing. There’s a sealing chamber that the president can use to escape right into orbit, to be retrieved later when it’s safe.”

“Shit!” Seifer slapped his forehead, “I completely forgot about that one.”

“We never needed it, and Squall didn’t. Besides... it’s where he set Rinoa free. It’s where what he thinks is his greatest failure is. Why do you think he hit the Palace last, according to Elise’s security team?”

“To give her time to get out, shit..." his jaw dropped with the realization, "Shit, he's gonna do it. He’s going to kill her.”

“He’s done enough damage already... enough to topple the nation. But we’re still here. Better late than never.”

“I just hope we can actually stop him.” Seifer said, “Hell. I guess I better pray, instead.”

* * *

Squall bent down and pulled open the hatch that looked like an ordinary ventilation shaft from the outside. He knew that nobody could tell the difference... that was, of course, if they didn’t have access to every state secret in the world. There was a metal ladder bolted to the wall that went down to the rail tram tunnel.

A few blocks away, the Presidential Palace was burning.

As Squall got in and began to climb down, he couldn’t help but feel an ounce of hesitation. In his mind, the Palace meant his father, meeting him for the first time. Meant shelter, meant refuge from the world.

It meant Ellone.

Some part of him felt sick that he had named this plan, as well as several others, after her. He wondered briefly what she would think if she could see him now.

But it wasn’t over, and so it didn’t matter.

As his boots found the concrete ground, his landing echoing through the tubular tunnel of the tramway, he couldn’t help but think that his strategy was sound. Twelve hovercrafts manned by willing pilots. Their flight paths and times carefully plotted so that they could hit every major infrastructural center, military and political base simultaneously. Getting through the honeycomb shield had been easy enough – the Zeta Squad had disabled it by blowing up the generator on his mark, one minute and thirty seconds’ ETA into Estharian airspace. Four minutes shorter than their best response time.

The trick was to have the last hovercraft give Elise enough time to escape to the rail tram. He had run multiple scenarios and it all pointed towards a seven-minute window, give or take. He would be on the ground and waiting by the tramway entrance before then. Maybe he’d even taunt Elise for good measure, to give her more of a drive to follow his plan.

There was a panel on the wall that was used to call the tram. The system was automatic. He glanced at his watch. Elise still had three minutes to reach Sorceress’ Memorial.

He couldn’t help but smile. The hatred running through him was marvelous to him. The sheer ire the mere thought of what she had done had been feeding him... and it continued to do so with gusto.

_This is what hate is, Elise. It’s not enough to kill you. No, it’s not nearly fucking enough just to kill you._

_I’ll burn your whole fucking world down._

Squall peered down the tubular tunnel. Above and below were the power rails, live now and glowing dimly blue. There was nothing else to his left. A little ways back, to his right, he could see the other access point, similar to this one – a concrete stretch that could accommodate five. Six if you huddled together. He knew that there were five more access points between here and Sorceress Memorial.

He knew that once he pressed the button, he had exactly two minutes and five seconds to reach access point number three through the tunnel.

His watch bleeped a split second before the tram recall did. Elise had reached her destination. Sorceress' Memorial. Salvation.

_There. You’re right where I want you to be._

He grinned, thirsty.

_But you’re not going anywhere._

Squall waited. Thirty seconds to let her disembark and the doors close.

He tapped his chest.

_“Shelter. Protect. Haste.”_

He pushed the button.

* * *

“This way, Madame President.”

Her shoulder, now snapped back into place, was better but Elise had difficulty climbing the ladder leading topside. The air grew hotter and dryer as they ascended, and then, she was on the surface. Her security detail, or rather five out of eight of her security detail, were waiting for her, standing in a semi-circle around the hatch. The other three were behind her.

A mechanical clank followed by a rolling sound alerted Elise.

“The tram’s been recalled!” one of those below said.

“It’s _him.”_ Elise said, feeling her heart starting to beat faster. She turned to Lanc, “How long do we have?”

“More than enough to secure you, Madame President. We’re already here.“

Elise turned and saw the grand form of the Sorceress’ Memorial. The hatch had put them right in front of it, within spitting distance of the steps leading up to its entrance. From where she was standing, the structure seemed like a behemoth, a smoothly-curved temple to Hyne. Her eyes searched for the tip of the orbital launch scaffold. Its orange body would be peeking behind the Memorial itself, offering salvation in orbit...

...except it wasn’t there. In its place was a column of black smoke lazily floating towards the skies.

“Where’s the launch line? Where the fuck is the launch line!?” she shouted.

“Shit.” Lanc hissed.

An eternity passed as Elise stared at the expressionless, bug-like helmet of the combat cyborg.

“Because it has no built-in alarm system, we weren’t notified.” Lanc said, “The Memorial isn’t an active asset, ma’am, and...”

“_Fuck that!_” Elise snapped, “Why the hell are we even here if... we... can’t...”

_Great Hyne and Vascaroon..._

Realization hit her like a runaway train.

“He wanted us here...” she muttered, “He wanted us to use the tram to come here, he... we have to go – _we have to go!” _her shriek echoed in the open space.

The cyborgs nodded. They turned, side by side, weapons at the ready.

A white blur shot up from the hatch. Before they could see it, the two cyborgs shook where they stood. Elise’s eyes widened and her mind stopped completely as their heads separated from their shoulders and rolled down. The two heads hit the ground with a metallic clang, almost in unison, and their bodies spasmed before falling, blood and machine vitae bursting out of the stumps that once were their necks.

“_-el.”_

Elise couldn’t think. She couldn’t breathe. The fight or flight response in her was telling her to run, to run like hell, but she couldn’t move. She knew that there six top-grade combat cyborgs around her, armed with gunaxes, all armored and ready to defend her with their lives.

She knew that it might as well have been her alone... she knew that there was nothing standing between her and Squall Leonhart except for thin air.


	15. The First Rule of Sharpshooting

**(Versus.)**

* * *

The cyborgs rushed forward in unison, gunaxes raised and ready. Lanc hesitated, but Elise pushed him forward – they would need every last man to handle Squall Leonhart. She waited until they encircled him and began to come at him from all directions. She didn’t wait for the show – she darted around the circle and dashed, as fast as she could, towards the Sorceress’ Memorial; the only place left to run to.

Squall almost felt sorry for Elise’s guard detail. He knew their training, their tactics and that their gunaxes’ reach was much shorter than that of his gunblade. He countered their attacks one by one, getting into the rhythm, keeping all six at bay with a mixture of his gunblade and a variety of kicks meant to keep them at a distance.

Lanc took the lead and they began to switch, coming at Squall two at a time to lock him into position. Squall saw through it. He waited for an opening, and when a split-second gap presented itself, he bent low, spun, drawing his gunblade through the air and the armor of two of his attackers. When his move ended, Squall quickly took their heads and moved to the others.

It was over quickly after that.

* * *

The Ragnarok, mercifully ignored, hovered in the air, swaying slightly from side to side as the stabilizers labored to keep it in place. The ramp came down, groaning, and Seifer inched towards the edge to look down. He saw shapes moving below, a white dot darting back and forth between four moving, blue dots, illuminated by residual lights from the Ragnarok. Seifer glimpsed at the horizon and saw that the sky there was a light blue line. Dawn was coming.

He looked down. The number of moving blue dots dropped to three.

Seifer clicked his comm-link.

“Quistis! He’s here! I don’t see Elise yet! Hell, I don’t see _shit_ except that he’s here!”

Two blue dots.

“Fuck this! I’m going down!”

_“How!?”_

“Just watch!”

Seifer braced himself. Then, remembering that he had actually done crazier things than this, he took three steps and jumped off the spaceship as the last blue dot fell.

* * *

Dispelling the Float spell, Seifer landed between Squall and the Memorial just as Squall pulled his gunblade out of the last of Elise’s guard. He flicked the blood off the blade and started to run towards the Memorial.

“Squall, we-“

Squall came out swinging, a broad, diagonal slash from his left. Seifer put his free hand on his gunblade and blocked. He felt the blow in his shoulders, the brute force behind it. He shifted to keep his balance. The blades locked.

“Get out of my way, Seifer.” Squall warned.

“Believe me, I want to.” Seifer replied, holding steady, “But I can’t.”

“Get out of my way.”

“You think I fucking like doing this, man? You think I like being the last line of defense between you and Elise fucking Galloway!?”

“It doesn’t matter.” Squall said, “Now _move.”_

“I can’t, man. I’m sorry.”

Squall’s gunblade shifted, barely an inch. Seifer held fast.

“Don’t do it.” Seifer urged him, “Don’t make me stop you.”

“Stop me?” Squall snarled, _“You?”_

As if to illustrate, Squall broke the blade lock and jabbed forward. Seifer parried. Squall pulled back and swung from the left, then came back from the right before carrying the momentum for a straight strike that Seifer blocked. Seifer put his weight on the blade and locked the blades once more.

They stood, eye-to-eye.

“Are we really doing this?” Seifer asked.

“I should’ve killed you when you first came back. Selphie told me not to, and I listened. Look where it got us.”

Squall pushed him away and then closed the distance instantly. He swung from below, a move Seifer had anticipated. He blocked and using Squall’s short rewind time, he took a step back instead of using the opening to strike. Squall came at him again. He swung hard from the left, forcing Seifer to block.

The instant the blades connected, Seifer realized that he had given Squall the upper hand on a silver platter.

Squall came at him with a hurricane of strikes, jabs and slashes, turning and stepping forward and back, dancing circles around him. Seifer kept his defense up, trying to parry than block, to avoid leaving himself open. Squall was out for blood - he could feel it in every blow they exchanged. Squall slowly started to lead him away from the front steps of the Sorceress Memorial. As he dodged a particularly straightforward slash, Seifer knew that he was not leading but following. He shifted tactics then, leapt back to create a little distance but Squall was on him, and the split second Seifer managed to gain only helped him start pushing back just a little.

Seifer shifted Squall’s balance with lighter parries and sliding blocks; it helped him gain more equal footing by forcing Squall to pull his brute strength back a little.

Squall’s left foot suddenly thrust forward and landed between Seifer’s legs. Seifer stepped over it, half-turning, barely in time to counter Squall’s forward jab. Gunblades clashed against one another and they began to tap dance.

* * *

The Ragnarok landed on the far side of the Memorial. As soon as it touched down, Brea dashed down the ramp. The rough soil crunched under her combat boots as she felt off-balance, with one arm in a sling and only one pistol in her hand, but she ran, tracing a wide semi-circle around the structure. She saw the duel out of the corner of her eye, heard the sound of blades clashing and saw black and white uniforms swaying to the beat of the fight.

She felt Quistis rush onwards, headed straight for them, and diverted her attention to the steps leading up to the Memorial. Let them fight it out. There was another priority.

* * *

For Quistis, their duel resembled a carefully choreographed routine, a couple’s dance with gunblades. Their blades, their footwork, their entire bodies were nearly perfectly synchronized. None of their moves found any purchase; instead, every strike slid into the harmless openings, forced or naturally there. Seifer’s defensive moves flowed seamlessly into one another, mirroring Squall’s offensive moves; and they turned, bent, stepped in every direction and fought, seemingly tirelessly.

Seifer pushed harder and threw a kick just to make him retreat. Squall spun, gunblade leveled and aiming for Seifer’s torso, and for an instant, Seifer saw what would happen. In slow-motion, he saw Squall’s gunblade sliding into the opening he had created just to increase the distance. He could parry, but the blade was coming in too fast. It would find him, catch him in the neck, or the shoulder, or the armpit, or the torso or the thigh, and a wound to any would prove serious... if not fatal.

Quistis swung desperately, feeling the momentum of the chain as a thought exploded in her head: _Oh, no you don’t!_

The sound of metal crashing against metal rung in his ears and Seifer waited for the feeling of cold metal slicing open his flesh.

Two seconds passed, and there was no pain.

He blinked. There it was, the length of Squall’s gunblade, extending towards his neck... with the blade at the tip of Quistis’ chain whip wrapped tightly around it, wedged in between.

Squall shook his blade and slid it off the chain. He retreat by two steps back and took his opening stance once again. Quistis pulled her whip back with a crack. Seifer glanced at the Sorceress Memorial behind Squall and began praying that Squall wouldn’t turn and run.

“Whatever.” Squall said.

“Don’t do this.” Quistis said, her voice pleading, “Please, Squall...”

“It’s already done.” Squall replied, deadpan, “There’s nothing you can do.”

“Is this how you want it to end?” Quistis asked, her mind grasping at anything and everything to find something to say. Instead, she blurted out: “Is this what Selphie would’ve wanted?”

A flash of anger in his eyes, razor-sharp and cold. Squall’s eyes narrowed to slits, just for a few seconds. In them, Quistis saw the end of everything. The death of all the things she held dear.

“You too, Quistis?” he asked.

_Selphie doesn't want anything anymore, _he thought, _she's dead._

“Squall...” _no, don’t say Galbadia, don’t say it, _“...don’t you see what you’ve done?”

“Yes." Squall said, "Esthar declared war. They just lost.”

“How long before Galbadia,” Quistis mentally kicked herself, “, rubs you the wrong way?” Quistis pressed on, “The Fisherman’s Horizon? How long before Trabia?”

“It doesn’t matter.” Squall said, _“Nothing_ matters anymore.”

“I always knew you could.” Quistis confessed, “If you wanted to. I knew you could burn the world... I just didn’t believe that you _would._”

“Believe it.”

In his eyes, Quistis saw the enemy.

* * *

The sealing chamber, always idly waiting for an occupant was an ominous sight, dominating the interior of the Memorial. The ring, composed of machinery, of components Elise didn’t know the names or functions of, was standing empty atop the steps, waiting for someone to step in and be frozen in time. The columns that lined either side of the walkway were humming with a resonance that gave her the impression that they were communicating – idle machine chatter beneath the ambient hum of the room.

The golden lights overhead that illuminated the chamber were dim, their auras silken and warm. Elise, sitting atop the steps leading up to the seal itself, clad in nothing but her nightgown and nightrobe, couldn’t look away from the entrance. She could hear the duel, far and wee, and every new strike, every new sound of weapons, made her flinch. A last-ditch effort, that she hadn’t even believed would work.

Her hand slid into her robe’s pocket and she grabbed the disk.

_If he goes down the warpath, there’s only four people in this world that might stop him... and even then I can’t guarantee anything, _she had said.

_I didn’t mean to put him on the warpath, _Elise thought, _all I wanted was for him to stop acting like Esthar was his backyard. I just wanted my homeland safe and freer than it would be if we were still catering to his every whim... not to start a war._

Elise remembered the wayward woman, the first sorceress... and she couldn’t help but wonder if this was her legacy, in the end. The woman that had partaken of Hyne’s flesh, the woman whose life had ensured an endless cycle of bloodshed... was this the punishment of profaning the Strong God, for becoming what she had become?

Footsteps approaching snapped her out of her thoughts. Elise stood, one hand still gripping the disk in her pocket.

In stepped Brea Willings, one arm in a sling and gun raised, aiming straight at the woman standing in front of the seal. Elise raised her hands.

“Hello, Elise.” Brea said.

* * *

Squall moved first, aiming squarely at Seifer. He came with a swing from below, causing Seifer to twist his gunblade around just to block. Quistis’ whip came from his left, and Squall leaned back to avoid it. He raised his gunblade just in time to parry the whip's scythe coming at him with the backswing, which was when Seifer went for him with a jab. Squall deflected him and spun to avoid the whip coming down on him from above; he slid under the chain and closed in on Quistis, gunblade coming in low, aiming for her stomach. Seifer extended his weapon and managed to block Squall’s gunblade an inch from Quistis’ flesh. Squall rammed his shoulder into Seifer’s and forced him to shift. Quistis cracked the whip and the blade shot up. Squall deflected the whip’s tip and stepped back to complete the move.

Seifer’s gunblade came out of nowhere as he lunged and Squall found himself taking back two steps to keep him at bay. Seifer bent over and Quistis’ whip shot forward, aimed directly at Squall’s shoulder. Squall broke contact with Seifer and ducked to the side. Seifer gave him one more swing for good measure and let him evade.

Quistis pulled back her whip from her right and gave it a spin in the air and before Squall knew it, he was having to deflect it once again. Seifer swung then, closing the small distance between himself and Squall. Squall parried, but he already knew that he had lost the lead.

_Never take a step back. Never take two steps forward with the same leg,_ his mind told him, repeating an old adage from the fundamentals of the gunblade.

Quistis and Seifer, honed by years of marriage coupled with years of training and countless battles, were in perfect sync. Their movements, Squall thought, flowed like the steps of an intricate dance routine. Gunblade and chain whip were working in harmony, orbiting around each other, keeping him on the defensive. Seifer’s gunblade was an elegant, masterful blur, striking, jabbing and retracting, and in the gaps left of its strikes, Quistis made her chain whip sing. It snaked around Squall, shot forward, retracted, spun, and every time both weapons charged forward, Squall’s uniform was torn. He could feel numerous small cuts all around his body – all non-lethal, all containing a little message etched in by the cutting edges: _please stop._

Squall eased into it. He let himself go and let them lead. He was aware that they were, unintentionally, backing him towards the Sorceress Memorial.

Another cut, this time on his cheek. Quistis’ whip.

_Please stop._

* * *

On top of the steps leading up to the entrance of the Memorial, Brea watched them fight. She listened to the sound of grunts, exclamations and of metal striking metal scatter into the air. She didn’t see a righteous war, or revenge. She saw brother fighting brother, brother fighting sister. This little family of theirs, held together by blood and shared wounds more than shared memories was tearing itself apart right in front of her eyes.

The gun in her good hand was heavy.

But she knew she couldn’t get a clear shot; and even if she did, she knew that if he noticed her, he would use her to his advantage – something she couldn’t afford at the moment.

She couldn’t help but wonder if that was how she had come to be where she was standing right then.

The gun her good hand felt cold.

The first rule of sharpshooting was that you had to be sure that you wanted to pull the trigger. You couldn’t take back a bullet once it had been fired, so, it was essential that you would not regret it.

Brea was certain that she would.

* * *

Seifer bent slightly to right and Quistis’ whip shot forward. He readied himself for the blow, from below, aiming for the very hilt of Squall’s gunblde.

Squall snatched the whip out of the air with his free hand and threw a kick that smashed onto Seifer’s eye. He was blinded for a second - long enough for Squall to grab hold of the whip’s chain with both hands, and jerk it towards him. The sudden move threw Quistis off. She stumbled, the whip slipped from her hands and the next moment, Squall’s knee crashed onto her nose, blinding her with the pain. Before she could even feel the blow completely register, Squall’s fist found her stomach cavity and knocked the wind out of her.

Squall turned and saw Seifer wobble, trying to regain his sense of direction. He used the opportunity to deliver a kick to his jaw, sending two of his teeth loose. Seifer lost his balance and fell. Squall kicked him in the stomach, eliciting a painful yell out of him.

Quistis was on her hands and knees, trying to breathe, trying to rise. Squall ended it with a kick, to the same spot he had punched.

“Stay the fuck down.” he hissed as Quistis curled up in a ball, teeth clenched, trying to see through the pain.

Squall stepped over to Seifer. He placed his boot on his chest and his gunblade’s tip stood the fraction of an inch from his Adam’s apple.

“Stop me?” he asked, “You can’t even keep up with me.”

Quistis stirred. Her chest was on fire, her insides were made of small bombs that wouldn’t stop exploding, one after the other. Through her blurred vision, she saw Squall’s boots. She forced herself to look up. The skies were brightening slowly, the darkness was receding to let in the dawn.

She saw his face, only partially visible in the low light. His eyes were almost glowing.

“Do you believe it now, Quistis?” he asked, “It doesn’t end. It _never_ ends... because you can’t undo the original sin. But I can.”

Squall turned and left Quistis to watch helplessly as he ran towards the steps leading up to the Sorceress Memorial.

* * *

Elise’s ears perked when she heard the sounds stop. It was over. Oh, dear Hyne, it was _over._ In a minute, _he_ would be coming in through the doors, gunblade in hand, and that would be it for her. No matter what else, no matter who else, she was finished.

Dead. She was so dead.

She was going to die in the Sorceress’ Memorial with nobody but Squall Leonhart, the monster, to bear witness.

_This is the end of all things, _Elise thought, remembering the Gospels. Vascaroon’s last words to the sorceress, she recalled, before he had killed her.

* * *

Squall cleared the final steps, determination running cold in his veins. In his mind, he was already calculating the possible defensive positions of any contingent Elise may have with her inside.

The final step. The doorway was right in front of him.

So was Brea. Her gun was pointed straight at him.

Point-blank.

For Brea, there was nothing in sight but her General, her Grand Master.

There was nothing in mind but the eleven bullets in her pistol.

The first gunshot felt like an explosion to those in earshot – in her mind's eye, Quistis could see the mushroom cloud rising from where the orphanage used to be... the image of total destruction.

* * *

The first bullet caught him right below the chest, in a treacherous bit of body cavity. He didn’t feel it enter, but felt the exit wound blossom as it tore its way out of his back. The second bullet entered almost in the same hole as the first had made and it followed much the same path.

The third entered the sweet spot between his shoulder and neck. His hand spasmed, his fingers opened and his gunblade fell. It didn’t stay balanced on the final step, but instead slipped away, clanging its way down.

Brea relaxed her trigger finger. None of those were fatal wounds and even though the blood loss would be an issue, she knew that the medical pods in the Ragnarok were well-equipped, and the damage was still small... for now.

“Brea...” Squall snarled, fists clenched. Each shot had hits its mark and he was barely standing, but he felt that it didn’t matter. He could take her. He could take her, and the one behind her, and the one behind that one – he would take down anything standing between him and his target, no matter who they were.

“Squall...” Brea couldn’t keep her voice from quivering, “Stop. Please.”

“Get out of my way.”

“I can’t.”

“Are you going to stand between me and her?” Squall asked, “Are you going to defend a sorceress with your life!?”

“Didn’t you, once?”

Squall’s eyes narrowed to slits. “How dare you..?” his voice was a harsh whisper, “...you spineless little _shit_. How dare you!?”

“Elise isn’t the one who burned Esthar down.” Brea countered, her voice even, “You are.”

“She would have. Eventually. Do you really think-“

“Squall, you don’t have to justify yourself to me. I know why you’re doing this. But she’s dead _and_ _nothing you do here will change that.”_

“It will make me feel better.”

A moment of silence, of understanding.

“Don’t make me do this.” Brea pleaded, “Please... don’t.”

“...you know that if you want to stop this, you’re going to have to kill me.” Squall said.

Brea’s vision blurred slightly as tears stung her eyes. She positioned her trigger finger back onto that treacherous curve once again.

“I know.” she said and pulled the trigger.

* * *

The fourth and fifth caught him in the stomach. In the back rows of his awareness, his nervous system flared up and told him that stomach acid was now pouring out of the holes and into his body cavity.

The sixth and seventh bullets punctured his right lung and began the flood. There was no time for him to choke as the eighth snapped a rib, drowning all other sensations with pain that white-washed everything else.

The ninth was crushed harmlessly against the medal he had earned by killing Rinoa. The tenth grazed it just enough to tear his jacket, snapping the pin. He felt the fabric sag, giving into the weight being put onto it, exposing his heart...

_Brea..._

The final gunshot boomed in the empty plains surrounding the Sorceress Memorial. The gun clicked.

* * *

Quistis saw through the pain and wished she couldn’t. In that moment, she wished to be in so much agony that she wouldn’t have anything spared for sight. But her eyes were wide open and Seifer, almost to his feet, saw it a second later.

Squall fell backwards. His feet slid further down the stairs and the weight of his boots pulled him down. He slid, his body shaking and rattling with every step, until he was almost to the second flat stretch, and then he stopped.

Quistis forced herself up and ran. She didn’t even see the distance, didn’t even feel her cracked rib. She ran like she never had before, screaming his name.

_“Squall!”_

* * *

Elise heard the desperate scream and felt a tingling spreading across her scalp; spider-leg fingers spreading out and burrowing into her brain. She saw that her hands weren’t shaking anymore. Her pulse wasn’t racing. She was drenched in cold sweat, shivering even though the chamber was kept just below room temperature. Her knees buckled and she fell down to her knees.

In her mind, a maelstrom was raging on, frantically listing all the things that had been destroyed in just over an hour: Esthar was gone. The entire infrastructure, from utilities to the political, the military, the honeycomb shield that was meant to keep them all safe; the army, law enforcement, intelligence, everything, _everything _was gone.

Esthar still had a President, a voice full of hubris reminded her.

But the President was a Sorceress, wasn’t she? The newest embodiment of the woman that had started the bitter war between Galbadia and Esthar in the first place; the latest re-iteration of the same bane that would forever plague the world.

What claim did she have to Esthar, or anything, when Squall Leonhart, by himself, had shown her the one mistake she had made?

Elise knew it now, could see it, but it didn’t help anything, solve anything. She had thought he was too powerful to not be denied. She had never thought he might have been benevolent. It had never occurred to her that he might have been holding back; that he could destroy the world around him, not in terms of being willing, but in terms of being _able_.

Dawn was breaking outside. Through the entrance, Elise saw the morning of a night she had ushered in...

She looked at her palms, clean on the outside.

_He was right._

_I wanted the power. I wanted it to push him back, to deny him... good intentions. The road to hell is paved in those. Doesn’t change that I wanted the power, alright._

_He didn’t kill me when he first found out... not because he couldn’t, no. Because he wanted to give me a chance. Oh, Hyne..._

Footsteps at the entrance. Approaching. Elise looked up.

* * *

Blue. The sky was blue and pure. In his mind, Squall wasn’t in the Sorceress Memorial. He was years and years ago, in another life. Before everything and before everything else... and so lonely.

He remembered that loneliness, in the moment he had made his promise to make friends with it – it was here to stay, after all. He remembered growing up without a single solitary friend except for his loneliness. His method was fool-proof. Abandon everyone, before they have a chance to abandon you.

Now, staring at the clear sky, dying with the dawn, he felt lonely. He was the loneliest he had ever been in his life... and the most content.

His lips parted. He wanted to speak then, pour out everything that had brought him there. But blood was filling his lungs. He was drowning. The words died on his lips and he managed a sigh.

_So, this is how it ends._

As the sky exploded into a brilliant vortex of pure light, he saw his life unfold.

A boy of four wondered where his sister had gone to.

A boy of five signed up. He wanted to be a warrior.

A boy of fourteen became a soldier.

A boy of seventeen fought a war of his own making and died on a parade float in the hands of the one he once wanted to call mother.

He then looked into the endless void of Time Compression and saw home.

A boy of eighteen watched his friend kill himself and wished to join him, just for a second... and then he fell in love.

A man of twenty-two won a war. He looked at the dead face of his once-lover and remembered nothing but the girl in the pure white dress who had put a spell on him a lifetime ago.

A tired general of thirty-five lined up orphaned children and killed them all, one by one; he sat in the pews and watched them dance under the shadows of the gallows.

It was his vengeance for killing the one he had once wanted to call mother – all things came together, in the end.

...and what came together, came apart.

* * *

A desperate man of forty-two died on the steps leading up to the ghost his mistake, bleeding out from his wounds, eyes turned to the sky. He smiled.

He was happy to be dead, so happy.

So happy to be over -to be done- at last.


	16. Patriotism

**(The man behind the woman.)**

* * *

Nobody outside of the Memorial paid mind to the single gunshot sounding off from the sealing chamber. Nor did they see the sudden burst of light that accompanied it. The light died quickly and the sound had dissipated long before then.

The final moment of the short war was marked not by the sound of the hammer driving the final nail into the solution, but by the falling of silence. 

* * *

Brea found them on the steps. Seifer was further down than Quistis, head cradled in his hands. He was as still as a statue. Quistis, on the other hand, was on her knees beside _him_. She was holding onto his lifeless body, rocking him gently back and forth, her eyes fixated onto his face. Brea followed her gaze to look at him, in a way she hadn’t looked at him ever before. There he was. White uniform tattered and torn, the medals decorating his chest a contrast against the fabric. Blood covering his torn shirt and undershirt, darker now that it was drying. His body, in a rather ordinary, comfortable position in Quistis’ arms, looked strong and was still. The outline of his muscles were clear, as were the various scars he had collected over the years. His near-bald buzzcut exposed his shapely scalp, save for a few leftover scars from the war.

The scar on his face appeared dignified rather than ugly or off-putting.

His eyes were closed and Brea knew that he was no longer breathing, but for a moment, she thought he would open his eyes and ask them where he was.

Brea waited.

He didn’t stir.

Brea sat down on the steps in between Quistis and Seifer, but away from both of them.

“And the fuck do we do now?” Seifer asked, “I mean, really, what the _fuck_ do we do now?”

Quistis didn’t respond.

“Is there even anything left _to_ do?” he asked, mainly to himself, “Hyne... I used to think SeeD was it. But after all of it, what’s it worth?”

“He died fighting.” Brea said.

Quistis muttered something, but Brea didn’t catch it.

“Fighting for what?” Seifer asked, “For what, for fuck’s sake? Tell me that: what the fuck was he fighting for?”

“Seifer...” Quistis’ voice rose to an audible level, but Seifer wasn’t stopping.

“...and look at this shit now!” he said, one hand waving in the general direction of the Sorceress’ Memorial, “Forget fucking everything, what the fuck do we do with all this? What!? Hyne, I wish Zell was-“

“Seifer, shut up!” Quistis shouted. Seifer took his cue. “You wanna know what he was fighting for? The only thing any of us ever fought for – _victory_... and he won the battle.”

“No, he fucking failed!” Seifer said, standing up, “Look at it! Just look at him, Quistis – he’s _dead!_ What else is left?”

“Haven’t you been listening?” Quistis said, “Victory. That’s what’s left. This isn’t over. We have one more place to visit." she swallowed hard, looking away "...someone needs to answer for him.”

“What about Elise?” Seifer asked, “There’s still that little problem.”

“Elise Galloway is dead.” Brea said.

Quistis glared at her, curious.

“She blindsided me.” Brea said, “Went for my holstered gun. I couldn’t stop her before she pulled the trigger. Not with one arm.”

Silence for a moment.

“Good fucking riddance.” Seifer said.

They all agreed.

Brea stood up and descended the steps.

“I’ll get the Ragnarok going.” She said, knowing that they hadn’t heard her.

* * *

Seifer and Quistis carried Squall’s body to the Ragnarok and laid him down in one of the sleeping pods. Seifer walked out, muttering something about checking on Brea. As the spaceship shook and rose, Quistis heard nothing – not the engine’s roar, not the whooshing of air, not the sound of her own, light sobbing.

Quistis, despite having been there, on the other side of the conflict, saw how hard he had fought for something she didn’t want to understand. The wounds that she had inflicted on him, the scars of long years, and those beneath the surface... they all seemed hollow now. Without any meaning.

She realized that to her, he was still that boy she remembered from her childhood.

Slowly, Quistis buttoned up his uniform and with a caring hand, flattened out some of the creases as best she could before closing the capsule. For a few moments, there was only her, the light emanating from the pod and his face, at peace. With a shaking hand, Quistis reached out, as if to touch him. Her fingers touched the cold glass.

“I’m sorry.” She said, “I’m sorry, Squall...”

She stayed with him. The Ragnarok rose, turned and shot forwards, tearing through the skies. Nothing happened for Quistis, no time passed. There was just her and him, nothing else. Nobody else. The Ragnarok stopped. It began to descend. Seifer’s voice, laced with buzzing static, echoed in the distance, saying something that didn’t mean anything in that moment.

The Ragnarok landed. Quistis hadn’t moved.

She stayed with him until Brea came to find her.

* * *

The President’s Mansion was the same as it always was: kept in good shape but unchanged. The sturdy, stone walls that marked its castle-like exterior, lit up by orange spotlights tracing their outline, appeared dirty when the spotlights of the Ragnarok, now resting in its garden, illuminated it. It was just after nightfall for Deling City - away from the breaking dawn of Esthar and shrouded in darkness.

Quistis took the lead, her chain whip hanging from her shoulder. She was flanked on both sides by Seifer with his gunblade in hand and Brea carrying one of her pistols. The two guards waiting on either sides of the outer door immediately took aim at them, the chambers of their weapons clicking.

“Halt!” the one on the left said.

“Is he inside?” Quistis asked.

“Yes.” The guard replied, “Do you have an appointment?”

“Do you know who I am?” Quistis asked them, “Who we are?”

The guards nodded.

“Then step aside, soldier, and tell the others to let us through while you’re at it. I’m tired, and I really don’t want to kill you.”

The guards hesitated. Then, the one on the left touched the side of his helmet and relayed the message. Brea’s hand went to her comm-link as the other guard went to open the door.

“ETA?” she asked.

_“Fifteen minutes.”_

“Make it twelve.”

She clicked the channel closed and followed Quistis in. The three of them walked right through the inner doors and into the main hall. It was a spacious, square room with stairs on either side of it; sharply-angled and a testament to the militaristic architecture that had prevailed in Deling after the Third War. They went up the stairs without interruption, passing by portraits of old kings and queens, getting closer to the modern rulers the further up they went.

On the left side of the double doors leading into the president’s office was a portrait of Rinoa, a stand against historical revisionism. They took a moment to look at the woman inside the frame. The painter had captured her beautifully. Her raven hair was hanging low on one side of her face. Her smile, small, modest but beautiful, accentuated her lips. She was wearing a plain white shirt and a black jacket.

Quistis noted the fine detailing: the silver chain with two Griever crest rings hanging from her neck.

“Well.” Seifer cricked his neck, “Here goes nothing.”

He rewound and kicked the doors open.

* * *

Jacen onesson, sitting behind his heavy mahogany desk with a dark varnish, refrained from swallowing the mouthful of coffee he had sipped just before the doors of his office swung open, revealing Quistis Trepe, Seifer Almasy and Brea Willings - all armed and all sporting some kind of visible injury. He set his cup down and picked up his toast instead. Strawberry jam, right from the Old Hill orchards; his preferred evening snack. Just one slice of bread from that little corner bakery in Timber. He had promised his wife.

He proceeded to calmly spread the jam across the bread’s crisp surface as Seifer closed the doors behind him.

“Hello.” He said to them, “By the way you’ve entered, I’m going to assume this isn’t a social call.”

The three of them went to the tea table by the window and pulled up three chairs. They sat down in front of him – Quistis directly across, Seifer on his right, Brea on his left.

“Didn’t think so.” Jacen took a bite. It always tasted beyond delicious and insignificant at the same time, “So what can I do for you?”

“Squall Leonhart is dead.” Quistis said.

Jacen stopped chewing for one second. Then, he continued. He swallowed.

“My condolences.” He said, “That is a rather unexpected development.”

“Cut the bullshit.” Seifer snapped, “We already know what you did.”

Jacen smiled warmly, “I suppose so, because otherwise, you wouldn’t be here right now.”

“You’re admitting it?” Brea said.

“Yes.” Jacen said, “It’s been a long day, and I just don’t want to spoil my evening with a vehement denial of the facts.”

Brea clicked her comm-link.

“ETA?” she asked.

_“We’re almost there.”_

“On my command, then.”

_“Yes, sir.”_

When she clicked it again, Jacen started chuckling with a mouthful of toast.

“And what was that?” he asked, “Strike team?”

“Worse.” Brea said.

Jacen pursed his lips. “Alright.”

Quistis clacked her tongue. “I just need to know something before I impeach you, seize all your assets including those belonging to your family, replace your appointed vice with someone I like for the interim, charge you with an extensive list of felonies, find you guilty, exile you and make it impossible for you to remain in Galbadia.”

“None of that will happen, but I’ll oblige.” Jacen said, casually sipping coffee, “Ask.”

“Why?” Quistis asked.

Jacen raised an eyebrow. “That’s all you want to know?”

“I already know _how._” Quistis said, “The sniper and the assassin. But I don’t know why.”

Jacen licked his lips, tasting that faint aftertaste of the cream. “This may be hard for you to understand, Miss Trepe...”

“Quistis, please. You’ve earned it.”

“Quistis." Jacen said, "You don’t have a nation. You don’t have a home on any soil. You don’t run a country that’s been screwed over by SeeD countless times, that has seen a Sorceress as its president. You didn’t sift through the rubble of your own home for your loved ones. You didn’t have to carry the charred corpses of a family whose only crime was to camp out in the woods out of there after SeeD was done. You didn’t have to quell riots in the Galbadia Garden with a rocket launcher squad. You didn’t have to deal with Dollet and their vengeful, ill-advised avoidance of everything you stand for, while simultaneously facing their endless, greedy demands. You didn’t get denied medical assistance by Esthar, time and time again... you never got treated like a second-rate human being or had to watch your children publically shamed and hanged. But most of all, I’ll ask you this: did you ever have an outsider come into your home, take a look at one of your most sacred grounds and think that they will defile it by sneaking in behind your back, violating the same principles that they themselves have put into place?”

Quistis’ eyes widened.

“Yes.” Jacen said, “I know you entered the Tomb of the Unknown King. You’re good, but not _that_ good. According to your precious Tripartite Treaties, that is a _casus belli._ But you did it anyway, because you felt you were above that accord. But I couldn’t take you on, who could? Even if this nation is at its zenith, I couldn’t go up against Ocean Garden... at least, not with Esthar backing you up.”

Seifer crossed his arms. Brea cradled her head in her hands. She knew what Jacen would say next:

“And then Esthar followed your lead and trespassed beyond the telling of it... that was the last straw. You felt that the rules enforced on us didn’t apply to you – what is that but oppression? We are not your _fucking _spittoon, _Quistis_.”

“That’s when you struck a deal with Headmaster Sun Aeryn.” Brea said.

Jacen shook his head. “No. That deal was already in place. The only possible ally for us was Trabia Garden, so I used what I had. If that plan had succeeded, none of this would have happened. None of it.”

Shock traveled across the room. Jacen finished his coffee.

“Mm-hm." he said, nodding, "That’s right. The aim was to have Esthar acknowledge the proposal of the outpost, which would be followed by a merger between Galbadia and Trabia Gardens. A brief but bloodless political clusterfuck later, it’d all settle into the new status quo. Except...” he smiled, “...you killed Sun Aeryn before that could happen. All I could do was to have the two cyborgs retrieved.”

“Why were their serials altered?” Brea asked.

“Because I figured it’d grab your attention.” Jacen said, “One way or the other.”

“You were banking on us thinking it was Esthar... you made Ocean Garden and Esthar go to war to even the odds.” Brea said.

“I saw tension building, what with Elise’s constant displays of defiance, and I used it to my advantage. In some ways, I’m glad you killed Aeryn, I really am. This is a much better outcome for me and mine.”

“I don’t think so.” Brea said. She clicked her comm-link. “Bring them in.”

“Ah, here we go.” Jacen smiled.

“Brea, what is..?” Quistis raised an eyebrow.

“Let me handle this.” Brea said, “I owe him two.”

Jacen’s calm, self-assured smile vanished the instant that the doors of his office were opened. In stepped five SeeDs, bearing orange armbands, armed and ready; they were dragging along two civilians, both with their hands behind their backs and their mouths duct-taped shut. A voluptuous woman with curly, blonde hair who was wearing a simple, everyday dress and a child of no more than ten years old, wearing jeans and a t-shirt. The girl had her father’s jet-black hair, covering her head with a masterful pixie cut, but had her mother’s brilliant hazel eyes.

Jacen stood up so fast that his chair fell back. He had both hands on his desk, which was when Brea’s gun pointed directly at him.

“Sit.” Brea instructed.

“What is the meaning of this!?” Jacen all but shouted.

“Ah, shit...” Seifer cupped a hand over his mouth, “Ah, _shit._ You didn’t...”

“Sir!”

Squad Theta.

“What are you doing here?” Quistis asked, “I didn’t call you.”

“General Willings’ orders, sir.”

“You don’t answer to her!” Quistis snapped, “You answer to _me!_ Now unhand them, right now!”

“Belay that order.” Brea said, “Sit down, Jacen.”

Nobody moved.

“Look, you can do whatever you want to me.” Jacen said, putting his hands up, “Kill me, torture me, throw me in your brig and throw away the key, but don’t drag my family into this!”

“...and where was all that when you decided to kill Selphie Tilmitt?” Brea asked.

Seifer held Quistis by her shoulders and sat her down, whispering to her that they would take care of this, if push came to shove. She nodded. Seifer sat down also. Jacen, helpless, complied and sat down, leaving only Brea, Squad Theta, little Mea and Adora standing.

“Hyne, please...” Jacen managed.

“Elise Galloway is currently in the Sorceress’ Memorial.” Brea said, “Trapped in undeath. So I’m going to tell you what’s going to happen: you will assume full responsibility for the assassination attempt on Elise Galloway, and the deaths of Selphie Tilmitt and Squall Leonhart. Then, you will resign, after which, you will surrender all of your assets, your wife’s included. Your VP will then take over. You will find a place for yourself and your family wherever you want – as long as it is away from Deling City.”

“As president, you have immunity; to a degree.” Quistis said, catching on, “But since your crimes are international, you’re under _my_ jurisdiction.”

“Then let them go.” Jacen said, “I’ll sign whatever you want me to sign. I’ll do it.”

“I wasn’t finished.” Brea holstered her pistol. “Then, Jacen... I will take your daughter to the Sorceress’ Memorial, where she will take Elise’s powers... we will announce that she is a sorceress, has been one all along, and that you’ve been hiding her here, with every intention of making her the President once she’s of age.”

Jacen’s face went pale. “No...” he managed, “...you wouldn’t.”

“Wouldn’t I?” Brea’s fist slammed onto Jacen’s desk, making him flinch, “Shouldn’t I!? Give me one good _fucking _reason why I shouldn’t! Better yet, tell me why I shouldn’t forget that, and kill them both right here, right fucking now! If you’re so big on reciprocity, you smug fuck, how’s this for fucking reciprocity?” she pulled out her pistol, went and pressed it against Adora’s temple, eliciting a muffled shriek. Mea was already crying, her nose red. Brea’s voice was almost shaking the room, _“Now tell me why I shouldn’t just pull the fucking trigger, Jacen!”_

Quistis began to rise, but Seifer’s hand on her shoulder stopped her. Quistis glanced over her shoulder. Seifer had one hand up, as if to say, _wait_.

“You have five seconds.” Brea cocked back the hammer, “Four.” Adora whimpered, trying desperately to move away, held in place by the iron-grip of Jahn, the martial artist, “Three.” Brea moved her finger to the trigger, “Two.”

“_For the love of Hyne, stop!”_

“One.”

Brea pulled the trigger. The gun clicked. Adora’s knees buckled. Jahn kept her on her feet. By her side, Brea could feel Mea trembling, her eyes wide open and filled with fear. Without a hint of emotion, Brea holstered her pistol.

“Mrs. Onesson,” Brea said, “As you’ve gathered, your husband has ordered the death of two people, compromised a lot more, just to further his political position, which is why we’re here. _Quid pro quo_. I doubt your daughter understands how that works, but I am sure you will find a way to tell her. Just know one thing: all that’s happened here, tonight, has one culprit, and he’s sitting behind that desk. We’re just repaying him in kind.”

Quistis could feel her heart beating, ready to burst out of her chest. Seifer, sitting next to her, was simply watching and fighting to hold back a smile. He recognized the symptoms well enough – she _was_ Squall’s own, after all. He saw that same boundless Leonhart cruelty; that repressed storm that every so often bubbled to the surface... the same storm that had driven him to the receiving end of Brea’s gun.

Seifer decided that he couldn’t hold back a smile. With a show of strength, a display of facts, Brea had just destroyed a family.

“What you took from me, Jacen, I’ll never get back.” Brea said, “But what I lost isn’t important right now. Take a piece of paper, and a pen, and your seal, and start writing your confession. Quistis will double-check it, but I’m sure you will start by saying you have written this being of sound mind and body and under no duress. If you leave anything out, know this...” she looked at him dead in the eye, “...I have another gun, and it still has ten bullets in it.”

Jacen's hands were trembling, “What... what about my daughter?”

“Elise Galloway is dead.” Brea said, “And... I wouldn’t do that to a child.”

* * *

When Brea stepped out of the office, the air inside the mansion felt fresh and cold, letting her breathe – but the walls were almost vibrating as they moved closer, boxing her in. She couldn’t stay for long. She pushed past the confused glares of the guards and into the open night air. She kept walking, her hurried steps tapping on the stone walkway. She saw a bunch of reporters on the outside, gathered around the Ragnarok.

Something inside her was burning brightly, burning slow, smoldering within the confines of her being. Brea quickened her steps. The reporters, anonymous faces, anonymous hands holding notepads and recording devices, began to rev up as they noticed her. Brea dug into her pants’ pockets and fished out the remote control for the ramp as they swarmed her, mouths moving, contorted; unrecognizable faces jittering as they fired volley after volley of questions, none of which she actually heard.

The ramp came down. Straining to keep calm under the barrage of voices, Brea climbed up. She brought the ramp up behind her. When it closed, the voices became a far away drone and died quickly.

She stood in the darkness of the entrance, listening to the silence around her. Enwombed in the safety of the spaceship, she felt the madness roaming her mind recede just a little bit.

She started to walk, each footstep a deafening, metallic clang. She approached the sleeping quarters and went in. The glow light from his pod was painting the room a pale blue.

Brea approached. She stood by his side, gazing through the glass separating them, at the blood covering his uniform, at the gap amidst his medals that marked the final bullet. She stood there unable to take her eyes off the consequence of the easiest choice that she had ever made.

Killing him wasn’t it. That choice had been made for her. Knowing him, having fought with him, having stood by him for years had allowed her to know that he had been right. He wouldn’t have stopped unless he was dead, but that didn’t mean stopping just at killing Elise. She knew that there’d be hell to pay for what had been done to him and that everyone would owe a pound of flesh.

No. The easiest choice she had ever made had been to spell out his name for him.

Brea knew that if she spoke, if one word slipped, she wouldn’t be able to stop. She tried to stem the tide, but knowing that it was coming, she let it loose.

Her fist crashed onto the glass of the sleeping pod.

“You _bastard.”_ She hissed through clenched teeth, “You _knew_, didn’t you? Knew that I would. That when it came down to a choice between you and what I had to do, I would choose _you_. Every time. Because that’s the good soldier you’ve made of me.”

Her palm pressed against the cold glass.

“That’s the _woman_ you’ve made of me.” she said. She leaned forward and her forehead the scraped the pod’s outer shell, “You weren’t going to stop... because you didn’t want to make it out alive. Because you could’ve stopped me, damn you, you could’ve stopped me any time you wanted... Hyne...” Brea sobbed, ”...why didn’t you stop me?”

Embracing the curve of the sleeping pod, Brea cried openly, her sobs echoing in the enclosed space.

“...and what am I supposed to do with all this now..? Look at me...” there was a knot in her chest, its strands tied around her throat that was choking her – the more tears she shed, the deeper she went, “...just open your eyes and look at me. I'm right here...”


	17. As of Late

**2 DAYS AFTER THE DEATH OF SQUALL LEONHART**

**(A gift.)**

* * *

Quistis woke up to the rays of the sun penetrating through the small opening in the drapes. She got out from under the covers and sat up. Sighing, she looked down at her feet, as had become her habit. Her right foot was unremarkable, even shapely if Seifer was to be believed, and the left one was scarred – her middle toe was still bent, quite noticeably, to the right.

In this simple sight Quistis saw her life, expressed in flesh. One side of her was still that same highly-strung Instructor from Hyne knew how long ago. Another would forever be what the years had made out of her.

Quistis got up and grabbed her morning gown. She slipped it on and felt its mundane comfort keenly – Chaterpillar silk. Birthday gift. One of the many creature comforts Seifer had brought up from the Master’s Level. Quistis, even as she was exhausted and numb, hadn’t had the heart to go back to her suite down there and sleep just a stone’s throw from where Selphie had died. She had found an empty suite and had collapsed on the bed and that had been it. Things like her uniform, fresh underwear, her robe, her cane and others had been in a large duffel bag Seifer had left in the room, with a note that read, _For when you’re ready._

Quistis’ mind started to work overtime in recalling what had happened. She opened the fridge and took out a bottle of multivitamin juice. As she twisted off the cap, her mind was already going over what to expect in Esthar now that the continent was entirely dependent on Galbadia and Ocean Garden to help them become self-sufficient again.

Quistis drank, its sweetened tang bitter on her tongue. She turned get to the living area. That’s when she noticed a small, blue object lying on the floor, right by the door. Curious, she went over and observed it. It was a blue, hard plastic square, at the center of which was a chrome-plated, circular disk connected to the rest of it via a thin, brass triangle.

_A data disk?_

Quistis picked it up and turned it over to read the label.

**VID FILE #987123**

**SELPHIE TILMITT**

“What the...”

There was a slip of paper underneath it. Quistis picked it up. It read:

_She had this on her._

She didn’t recognize the handwriting. It was just a sharp scrawl in black ink.

Quistis went into the living room, her breakfast and hunger forgotten. She crouched in front of the viewscreen and turned on the disk player. She retreated to the couch after the screen came to life. Quistis crossed her legs and began to watch.

* * *

The crystal-clear vision through the drone’s lenses revealed the glossy surfaces of the President’s office. The President was leaning against her desk, her arms crossed. Across from her and in the room was Selphie, her hands in her pants’ pockets. A few moments of silence. The double doors of the office hissed as they closed and once they did, Selphie spoke up.

“I’ll level with you.” Selphie said, “If you’re going to do this, we need to make some ground rules. And let’s face it, you _are_ going to do this, so...”

“Do what?” Elise asked.

“Start a war.”

“I don’t want to start a war.”

Selphie sighed, “Too bad, ya just fired the opening shots of one, just now. Thing is and I hate to admit it, but not entirely your fault. You’re a sorceress now. It’s in your nature.”

“How is it in my nature? I’ve been a sorceress for barely two hours.”

“The original sin.” Selphie said, “You can’t undo that.”

“What does that have to do with us?” Elise asked.

“Alright. Play dumb if you want. Your funeral.”

“Is that a threat?”

“Lady, I can kill you where you stand, right now.” Selphie said, “Now. Rule number one.”

“The entire point of what I did today was to make sure I would not be playing by your rules.” Elise said, “What makes you think I’ll concede now?”

“Because you don’t know what you’re playing at, or who you’re playing against.” Selphie said, “Look, there are things inside Squall Leonhart that you don’t wanna stir. He’s not just his reputation, you know. He’s capable of much, much more than what your reports and your history tell you. If he thinks the final solution is the only solution, then he’ll do it. If he goes down the warpath, there are only four people in this world that might –not will, you know, just maybe might- stop him... and even there I can’t guarantee anything. He’ll level this whole continent without a second thought if he thinks you have it coming.”

“He is quite remarkable.” Elise said, “But I don’t think he’s quite capable of destroying a nation just to take out one person.”

“Like how he didn’t level Deling City just to kill Rinoa, right?”

Elise shook. She uncrossed her arms and stuck her hands in her pants’ pockets.

“Exactly.” Selphie said with a nod, “Just don’t make that mistake. I mean, against my better judgment, I want you to have what you want. If that means there will be no war for a while, I’ll take that option, any day.”

Elise dropped her arms. Her shoulders slumped. She stuck her hands into her pants' pockets. “So... what are the rules?” she asked.

“One, and you might wanna write this down: you can’t touch me.”

“Excuse me?”

“If you harm me, kidnap me, or, Hyne forbid, kill me, then that’s it. That’s game over. You do that and there’ll be nothing standing between him and you – not distance, not your armies, not your security, not your weapons or your powers. He’ll come for you and he won’t stop until you are dead... and he will make sure you are dead by any means necessary. Any means.” Selphie sighed. “Thing is, Elise, I don’t want him to feel that pain... I’ll try my best not to let that happen, but if it does... well, you’re fucked, is what it is.”

Elise seemed shaken, but she was trying hard not to reflect it. Her hands in her pockets had curled into fists.

“Two.” Selphie continued, “Quistis, Seifer and Brea are also off-limits. Same outcome. But, just so we’re clear: if you’re gonna, make sure you kill us all in the same instance.”

“Are all SeeDs this paranoid and volatile? I keep telling you: this isn’t a war.”

Selphie shook her head, “Not yet. I’m giving you the rules of engagement so you won’t turn it into one. Why do you think I waited until they were out of the room? This is kid stuff for us, but you’re not quite there yet.”

Elise didn't react. Selphie continued:

“Now... except for those, there is one mistake you might make. So, trust me: don’t underestimate Brea.”

“The General? What’s that supposed to mean?

“I know she looks like some stray we picked up from a street corner somewhere... what? Why’re you making that face? It’s true, Elise, that’s what everyone thinks she is!” Selphie put one finger to her chin and tilted her head to the side, mock-thinking, “Y’know, come to think of it, maybe she is, too... huh. Well, anyway. She’s a survivor of the Trabian Atrocity. She has more reasons to hate your guts than she’ll ever let on and she _does_. She hates your fucking guts for _choosing_ to become what you are. So if you think she’s just this puppet doing our bidding or some shit like that, don’t. She has more reasons than all of us combined to want you dead.”

“I... knew that. That she was a survivor, I mean. I just thought she was just rather... small, compared to the giants she walked with.”

“Elise, Elise, Elise...” Selphie shook her head, “Put it to you this way: push comes to shove, she’d sooner kill you and take your powers to make sure that you were properly dead, than ever look for another solution.”

* * *

Quistis stopped the vid. If the bar at the bottom of the screen was any indication, it still had a few minutes left, but Quistis had heard enough. What was now frozen on the screen was an evening she remembered, and she also recalled what Selphie had said about what she had done on that night.

"_I talked some sense into her," _she had said with a smile, "_Hyne knows she’ll need it."_

When Quistis thought back to when they had marched into that office, she saw everything Selphie had said coming to pass. Every warning given had been ignored, only not by Elise. Quistis felt tears streaming down her cheeks and tried to stifle the flow. She knew that Selphie had failed. There was no escaping the damning truth: that the data disk was meant to be evidence for Elise’s innocence and could have put them on the right trail sooner... soon enough to save her.

Maybe even soon enough to save _him_.

Quistis watched it again and again and after the sixth time, she became aware that she was watching it just to hear Selphie’s voice.

_But why..? Why? Why would she even bother?_

In her heart of hearts, Quistis knew the answer.

_Because we were fighting a war the moment we stepped into that office... and unlike us, Selphie just wanted to reduce the damage._

Quistis felt her scars more keenly in that moment. The misshapen foot. The pink, rugged skin of her burnt hand. The shoulder that always knew when it would rain or snow. The straight line stitches covering her body, marking every time she had messed up during training, every time she had let an enemy come too close. Years upon years upon years of bloodshed, the maddening times in between – not knowing how to sit, how to stand, how to eat, how to be. Feeling at home in the victories and defeats.

_We saw an enemy, absolute. A sorceress, the reason why we exist. An aberration, an abomination, a witch. What was the point? It’d come down to this anyway. She couldn’t be allowed to exist._

Quistis thought about Edea. It was a painful memory, barely standing with her broken body, trying to kill her, only to have her return the gesture with a gift. The healing light that had mended her body had also brought on the memory of why SeeD was SeeD.

The very thought of SeeD came with a slideshow of Squall in her mind; but no matter which memory she stumbled onto, it was marred by a snapshot of his dead body in the sleeping pod.

_“If he thinks the final solution is the only solution, then he’ll do it.”_

Quistis understood. She reigned herself in, stifling her tears and let her understanding bring her down, slowly but surely. 

She understood why Selphie had stayed behind, why Elise had kept the recording. It wasn’t sorceresses, or war, or her duty to the Garden, or anything else. It wasn’t anything so irrelevant, so easy.

_She was just trying to protect him... she was trying to protect the man she loved from himself... and from the pain that she knew would kill him._

Quistis took the remote and shut it off. The blank screen left behind an after-image, fading fast, and Quistis wondered, just for a second, what would’ve happened if they had walked away that evening, if they had stepped down. She checked the clock. 9 A.M., internal. A mere hour and a half after Squall's funeral. She had just seen Ellone off. Quistis pushed the thought of the procession away, normalized it, drowned it under a more baser need, to find a place for the disk on her beside, for instance.

Something prodded her then.

_What was it that she said..?_

Quistis turned the screen back on and went through the video three more times.

* * *

_“...she’d sooner kill you and take your powers to make sure that you were properly dead, than look for another solution.”_

Qustis stopped. Something about that seemed to make something in her head click. Her thoughts went back to the Sorceress’ Memorial. They had simply called for Squad Zeta to retrieve the body and present it to the Garden morgue before they had embarked for Deling City.

Quistis picked up the phone and dialed the Infirmary first. Two rings.

_“Infirmary?”_

“Dr. Cristin?”

_“Yes, Master Trepe?”_

“I need a report, if it has been prepared.”

_“Yes?”_

“Elise Galloway’s autopsy. You should’ve gotten it yesterday.”

_“Ah, yes. Well, it’s a good thing Squad Zeta has prepared their report en route to here. It’s here on my desk, waiting for your... ahem, oversight, as the Acting Grand Master.”_

“It’s nothing urgent.” Quistis lied, “But can you tell me what the cause of death was?”

_“Just a second.”_ The shuffling of papers followed, _“Single gunshot to the head.”_

“Was there anything found at the scene?”

_“Nothing. The fingers of her left hand were curled into a gun position in rigor, but Squad Zeta reported no weapon was found at the scene.”_

“That was Brea’s gun. She retrieved it after...”

_“That clears it up.”_

“Did she have anything on her when she was retrieved?”

_“According to the report, just her clothes.”_

Quistis’ brow creased. This meant that the disk hadn’t been on her as the note had said. So maybe, the disk had been on her at the time whoever had slipped it under her door had found it, but they had taken it off of her.

The gears in her head started to turn with an urgent enthusiasm. She tried to remember the Sorceress’ Memorial. She sifted through constant replays of her fight with Squall, as well as his death, trying to focus. She was missing something.

_When did Elise die?_

Her recollection said that it was a little while after Squall. Brea had gone back up, they had heard a single gunshot and the autopsy backed up Brea’s story that Elise had managed to get the drop on her.

_...but since when does anyone get the drop on Brea?_

Quistis’ eyes widened.

_Since when does a desperate grab at a gun mean suicide?_

She played with a stray strand of her hair, her fingers twirling it absently just to have done something. The succession of witches was dependent on one thing: someone had to be the sorceress. One could either take a dying sorceress’ powers, or the sorceress could commit suicide – directly, or by consenting to their deaths, it didn’t matter. The latter case meant the powers would be dissipated into the aether to choose another woman, at random.

The former case meant that the sorceress would be trapped in a state of undeath until someone took her powers.

_So Elise pulled her own gun on Brea and wouldn’t drop it... even if at point-blank range she could..._

_Oh, Hyne..._

Selphie's voice on the video.

_“...she’d sooner kill you and take your powers to make sure that you were properly dead, than look for another solution.”_

The thought exploded in her head, shattering every other piece of stray idea and incomplete imagining.

_Brea._

Quistis snatched her Master’s keycard from the coffee table in the living room. She rushed to the door, opened it up and got out of the suite. Barefooted and in her nightgown and robe, she began to run down the hall, towards the General’s suite.


	18. Epilogue

**NOW.**

**(Brea’s war.)**

* * *

The snub-nosed revolver was a gift; it had been given to her on her birthday seven years ago, just after Edea. It was a work of fine art, and carried the touch of somewhat reluctant Shumi craftsmanship. It was coated in silver, with intricate lines etched into every available inch in flowing red, pretty curves. The stock was wooden, sanded and shaped into perfection; and it bore her name, written in the Shumi language.

The gun was a .47 caliber, just like her twin pistols. She had removed its safety catch after getting back to her suite on that day, as she did that with all of her weapons. It was her sharpshooter training – a finger extended along the barrel was all the safety a gun would ever need.

Now, the revolver had only one round in the chamber and the hammer was cocked. A little ways from it was the plastic, golden casing of her lipstick, which was the only make-up she ever wore. Number 54, Centra Sun, a vibrant, blue based pale red. One of the very few things that were her own, had been her own since the Trabian Atrocity.

Her palms were pressed firmly against the smooth, glass surface of the white make-up table, on either sides of the gun. Her fingers, nails well-groomed, were spread out.

Brea looked up and into the make-up mirror. Brown eyes looked back.

* * *

_The humming of the machinery filling up the sealing chamber was almost deafening. The droning of it, steady, low, at the very edge of her hearing but still maddeningly present accompanied her footsteps in._

_Brea holstered her pistol. Up ahead, she could see Elise, pale as a ghost, trembling in her nightgown. Upon seeing Brea, Elise began to walk on shaky legs, trying to make her way to her as quickly as possible. One of her hands dug into the side pocket of her gown and Brea instinctively drew her other pistol. That didn’t stop Elise. She pulled out what looked to Brea like a data disk._

_“I’m innocent!” Elise said, “Please, it’s on this disk! I didn’t kill Selphie Tilmitt, I didn’t... I’ll admit to everything else, every single thing, but not to something I didn’t even do! Just-“_

_“Squall Leonhart is dead.” Brea said._

_Elise’s eyes grew wide. Brea passed the pistol to her other hand and grabbed the disk from Elise’s hands. She slid it into her pocket._

_“It wasn’t me...” Elise said, “I keep telling you, it wasn’t-”_

_“We already know.” Brea said, “We know Jacen Onesson was responsible. At least partially.”_

_Elise seemed to relax at that. She exhaled. Her shoulders slumped._

_“But you’re a sorceress.” Brea said, “...and I can’t let you live.”_

_Elise found herself looking down the cold depths of the barrel, remembering the conversation she had had with Selphie, the last conversation..._

_“Wait...” she managed, “Just wait...”_

_“I need your consent to shoot you.”_

_“No!” Elise shrieked, “No! You’re not doing this! You’re not-“_

_The gunshot boomed and Elise’s head snapped back. The impact dragged her torso down and she fell in a pile of limbs, exit wound leaking steadily onto the ground, spreading out. She laid there, twitching, gasping. Brea holstered her pistol as Elise's eyes rolled to the back of her head. She went around her and crouched down._

_She knew that the twitches wouldn’t stop. She knew that the desperate, futile gasps for air wouldn’t cease._

_Brea recalled standing on a beach, years ago, watching sorceress Rinoa writhe in the clutches of that little blind spot between life and death. Hyne’s descendant was eternal, she knew; but the body of Hyne’s descendant wasn’t built to last._

_She heard Squall’s voice, echoing from a memory: _Nobody deserves this.

_Brea had known the problem since the Third War. The first and the final problem of any war fought against a sorceress: what to do with her powers? The suicide option she had offered ensured a smooth succession by lottery, allowed the powers of the sorceress to find some random girl somewhere, create a victim of circumstance._

_What was that but delaying the inevitable, in the end?_

_The only other option was twitching on the floor. Even then, Brea had to admit that Squall, damn him, had been right. Nobody deserved this._

_Brea understood then how it must end. She had known every morning since Edea had shown her how it always ended._

_“Listen to me, Elise.” Brea said, “I will take your powers. I will take your powers and let you rest. I’m sorry that it had to be this way... but you chose. Now, I’m choosing. You can give them to me. Let it go. Just let go and you can rest.”_

_Elise seemed to understand. Her body stopped spasming for a moment._

_“It’s alright.” Brea said, “I know how it ends. I know how it must end. It ends with me.”_

_She didn’t believe one word of it._

_A swirling mass of brilliant lights erupted from the bullet wound, its tendrils reaching for Brea. Brea let the power enter her and spread through her veins, mixing in with her blood to seal the accord. Brea couldn’t hold back a gasp from escaping her lips. The light died quickly and with it, Elise Galloway released her last breath._

_Brea stood there for a few moments. She then holstered her pistol, turned on her heel and began to walk away._

* * *

Brea grabbed the envelope from the corner of the mirror. She opened it and placed the small card inside it onto the make-up table. Almost involuntarily, she reached for the Hyne Cross hanging from her neck. She had gotten so used to its presence there, that she wondered if it had always been this heavy.

Brea picked up the revolver and pressed the barrel against that sweet spot under her chin. She closed her eyes, content. She smiled.

She pulled the trigger.

* * *

“Brea!”

Quistis heard the gunshot just as she opened the door to Brea’s suite. She rushed inside, calling her name again and again. When she couldn’t see her in the living room or the kitchen, Quistis burst into the bedroom...

...and there she was.

Sitting on a chair in front of her make-up table, itself empty except for a lipstick and a piece of paper – _a note, goddammit, a note to explain nothing_. Brea’s head had fallen back and although her body was still sitting upright and her eyes were closed, Quistis could see the exit wound dripping blood onto the floor.

“Brea...” Quistis couldn’t help but feel cold, “...oh Hyne, oh Hyne, what did you do..?” tears began to flow, sliding down her cheeks, “_What did you do..?_”

Quistis saw the note again. She picked it up with trembling hands, constantly repeating Hyne’s name; like a dead prayer, spoken too late. On the card, written in black ink and made of everything that had never been right again after the first missile had hit all those years ago were four words that would haunt Quistis forever:

** I did my duty. **

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To be concluded.


End file.
